"Patience Kite has lured him to Enfield on a false scent after Blueskin. There was one letter. She noticed an odd new gleam in Michelle’s eyes, a focus she had not noticed before. ” She shook her head. ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’ ‘Yes, yes. ” Lucy looked at Michelle sympathetically. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. Grudgingly he admired her.
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