“Who?” She asked. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. I went to the theatre that night. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. She turned up dead after about eight weeks and it broke my heart. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super. ’ ‘I am whatever you like,’ he agreed pleasantly, ‘but nothing is going to stop me from searching for this dagger.
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