‘I see that Leonardo was right. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. Her steps slowed. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. This also struck her as odd.
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