Chapter Six
Miss Merryweather’s words stayed with Barnaby half the night, jostling for space in his head along with everything Marcus had said. His skull would surely burst soon, from the pressure of all that was crammed into it. Sleep came in snatches. He woke at dawn, weary and unrefreshed, to the quiet sounds of a housemaid laying a new fire in the grate. When she’d gone, Barnaby burrowed deeper into his bedclothes and tried to find unconsciousness again, but already thoughts were turning over in his head. It was like having a nest of writhing eels inside his skull. They wouldn’t stop moving.
He closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing . . . and the eels in his head slid over one another and gave him Lavinia. Lavinia, sobbing in his arms. Lavinia pressing her warm, salty lips to his.
