Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. 3. ‘Imbecile. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. ’ She shook her head sadly. “I am not sure,” Anna answered.
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