She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. Three cars were lined up in the driveway. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive.
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