She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. And the sergeant, having carried out all Melusine’s instructions as if they had come out of his own head, went up to check on his patient, apparently at last convinced that his prisoner would not attempt to run away. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy.
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