For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. ’ ‘But I have still a dagger,’ Melusine warned. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. He—” “Here they are!” said Ann Veronica as the bell sounded. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. He’ll never ask because I’m not in with those people, you know? Well, I guess John Diedermayer might have some connection, but, I certainly don’t.
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