Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. Her mother had prepared her for everything. But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. You're rich. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study.
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