In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. He hated himself a little for it. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. ‘Pig, miss?’ ‘The one who calls himself Valade, idiot,’ snapped Melusine impatiently. He knocked his pipe on the teak rail.
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