‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. I think not, Annabel. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Gerald grinned.
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