For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. Plots were hatched in the provinces, where many of the old and wealthy Catholic families resided, whose zeal for the martyr of their religion (as the Chevalier was esteemed), sharpened by the persecutions they themselves endured, rendered them hearty and efficient allies. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. Sebastian, too, seemed to be immune, even though cats, dogs, and beasts of the suffered just as the humans did: blackening and dying, their eyes rolling, their bodies covered with bald buboes. And in the vestry was the sword of monsieur le major. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. He could scarcely blame her. “Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power.
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