“Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. Melusine came in, picked up the lantern, and heard the library door bang open just as the panel clicked closed behind her. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. I’ve had it, Sheila. His apparel was sumptuous in the extreme, and such as was only worn by persons of the highest distinction. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. Sheppard, fleeing from him to the farthest corner of the room. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible.
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