“Buck up, my lady,” he said. “The sea’s falling.”
Joan’s world rocked.
The trick had been done. The game was as good as played. The fallen sparrow was up—spreading its wings. Very soon now it would be out of sight. Only the decoy would be left—fallen on the ground. Only the decoy. . . .
Her own words flamed at her.
‘The door’s open—I’ve only got to walk out.’
It was, indeed, ‘the easiest thing in the world.’ One didn’t need any nerve to step into heaven. Besides, he was her man—had always been. Already they’d lost seven years. . . .
Two figures loomed out of the shadows.
“The only objection to masks,” purred a familiar voice, “is that if a wife should want her husband she can’t find him.”
With his back to the speaker, Peregrine stood like a rock.
“For my part,” came the reply, “I should call it a virtue.”