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She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. Her normally shiny hair was 143 stringy and flat. “Yes. “Read this, John. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. Mr. ’ ‘I imagine it must be a relief to you, after so lucky an escape.
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