“You go somewhere, don’t you? You change into something, don’t you? What happens to you, petite Cigale?”
“When?”
“When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Drene.” She broke her chocolate cake into halves and laid one on his knee.
“Thanks for further temptation,” he said grimly.
“You are welcome. It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Excellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him.”
She laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble her cake, with her eyes still fixed on him.
Once or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandered absently elsewhere.
“You think a great deal, don’t you?” she remarked.