John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. “I’m being honest with you. Sir John saw it, and was flattered. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. No pistols, no daggers today?’ ‘Would you have me show a pistol with so many soldiers? I am not a fool. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. You’re tired, of course. They were the same. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. ‘I am not a person, Marthe.
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