Chapter Twelve
Perry lit a chamberstick from the lamp that had been left in the entranceway and climbed the narrow staircase. The usual medley of smells assaulted his nose: sweat and tobacco and chamber pots, cabbage and onions and pickles, the mutton smell of tallow candles. It was a relief to reach his room, where his window stood open and the air smelled only of coal smoke and tallow. Lady Violet was perched on his windowsill, her black-clad legs crossed at the ankle. In the candlelight her skin was luminously pale, her eyes dark and mysterious. She looked beautiful and otherworldly, as beguiling and dangerous as one of the nymphs who’d enticed Hylas to his doom.
“What do you mean magic?” she demanded once he’d closed his door.
Any resemblance she had to a naiad was snuffed out. The
