She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. With astonishment, Gerald saw a rheumy film rimming his old commander’s eyes. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends.
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