CHAPTER EIGHTThe lights of the Hotel Cronos looked warm and inviting from where Jacina stood on the pavement opposite. She had just alighted from the fiacre that had met her carriage from Geneva. The vehicle had been draughty and Jacina had shivered all the way.
She had barely eaten in two days – just some fruit and a brioche snatched at a baker’s stall in Paris.
It had been a long, cold journey from England and she hoped she would never make another like it. She had never felt so alone in her whole life.
Only the stable boy, whom she had bribed to drive her to the station in Carlisle, knew she was leaving. She had left a letter to wait for her father. All she had taken with her was the money her father had left her and a small travelling case.
If it were not for the thought of the Ear
