She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. I will shed no more blood. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. She started forward. Her stomach growled, and she clutched at it in reaction, haphazardly observing that the gown had been changed to silk. “You can keep him at arm’s length.
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