I beg that you will consider me your friend. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. A maidservant held the front door open. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town. At least here she was safe. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told.
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