A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. Beneath the hood it was evident that her rebellious hair was bound up with red silk, and fastened by some device in her ears (unless she had them pierced, which was too dreadful a thing to suppose!) were long brass filigree earrings. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. “What are you doing?” he asked. Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. “No, I’d like to.
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