A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. The storm burst upon them in its fury. They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. The shock and distress were genuine. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child.
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