The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. ‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. All this was the work of a minute. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. “Lucy, you. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat.
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