“‘Tis I, indeed,” Barnaby said, his tone more sombre than usual from the moment he had seen her like this; his joke softened to something almost sympathetic. “But I am afraid you do look like you have seen a ghost.” In the metaphorical sense of things, anyway. Her skin was ashen, her forehead looked clammy, her voice seemed hoarse and weak – although she had raised her hand to him.

He drifted further into the room, towards the foot of the bed. If he had been bound by the rules of Living decency, Barnaby supposed he ought not be here, at this particular moment – she should be with her husband or her twin – but it was only chance that had seen him look in on her, and now that he was here he couldn’t help but think she was perhaps getting near the brink of death.

And that was rather a vested interest of his, generally speaking. (And specifically so, too – for if anyone was set to join him in this side of the afterlife, Adrienne Lestrange was a rather favourable candidate. He wasn’t sure whether it would it would flatter or distress her, to say so to her face.) His gaze lingered on the spells above her, but, being unable to decipher them, his eyes finally settled back on her. “Whatever is amiss?”

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