Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. She fell into another depression, refusing to touch Sebastian or call him husband when he demanded it. "Agreed," responded the Master. His blood would be sweet with it. He paced faster, stomping around. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid.
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