My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. ‘Nothing. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. The patient fell into a natural and refreshing sleep. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. ’ ‘Because I like you, of course,’ Gerald said promptly.
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