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To his relief, she nodded. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. ‘I recall my father speaking of you as a Remenham. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt.
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