And, now, to find a messenger. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ” She said. Bring me clothing, I beg of you. It was as much as I could do to prevent him flying out of the house there and then and coming after you.
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