He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. “Michelle knows!” Lucy stood in stunned silence for a moment, and then cursed. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. Good-looking girl. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. “I’ve been following you for many years.
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