Annabel was in hiding all the time. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. Lady Palsworthy was the widow of a knight who had won his spurs in the wholesale coal trade, she was of good seventeenth-century attorney blood, a county family, and distantly related to Aunt Mollie’s deceased curate. Melusine circled her adversary only far enough to give herself the aisle between the pews behind. She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. And if I don’t, I go mad. “We’ve never known anyone who can play like you, Lucy.
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