The audience clapped more heartily. Too late. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. Lucy stared like an automaton at Michelle’s unconscious 262 body, revolted at her own actions to the point of shock. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. There was no response. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. And you will. Tell him the truth, Annabel. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. Critically, she stared at her own features. .
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