There never is much left for me. Lucy inhaled deeply. Why must her old nurse discover her precisely at this moment? ‘What are you at now, may I ask?’ Martha glared at the footman. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. ‘That is true,’ Melusine conceded. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked. "What for?" demanded Wood.
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