She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. Scarcely any one entered Mr. ‘You the fellow Gerald spoke to?’ Kimble flushed beetroot, and Melusine had a flash of insight.
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