Poor little one. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. He wisely refrained from questioning the manager of the Victoria. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. “Cut her throat!” Sebastian snapped.
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