He walked with bent head. ’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Gerald said calmly, sipping at his burgundy. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. ’ She halted, her pistol still held firm and straight, both hands gripping it, her expressive features at once determined and uncertain. On examination it proved to be a flat bar of iron, nearly a yard in length, and more than an inch square.
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