” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. “You should probably wash all of that stuff off of yourself. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. He kept that, but the rest. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. You will be opposite the big entrance in Old Palace Yard. “It’s his birthday.
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