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. “Excuse me?” Mike threw Michelle a strange look, bursting into a grin. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. If only monsieur le baron had said nothing, or perhaps instead accepted the couple as the Valades and agreed to help them. His arm closed in around her middle and she was caught. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. Kneebone. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below.
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