My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Wood, in indignant surprise. “You have a boyfriend! That’s fine by me, it’s your business, but you’d better stop sneaking around because Sheila’s got eyes in the back of her head!” He heard Sheila utter a loud percussive blast of a snore from the master bedroom. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds.
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