She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground.
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