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crowd facing the church of Saint-Nizier to obtain a sight, her first for three years, of the Scotsman who so resembled her.
    Conscious of her own singular beauty she had wondered if he had lost his own looks, but this was not so. Indeed, he had come into them in an odd way; the pastel colours subtly enlivened by the snows of Muscovy; or what he had found there.
    The thought did not please her. She watched him dismount and, her lips tightening, saw him speak to her husband and Jerott, flushed, answer him. Then Jerott was joined by two other men and the three followed her brother to the entrance of the Hôtel de Ville.
    In the archway, Francis Crawford paused and turned. The crowd, readily sycophantic, raised some applause for him. He smiled, acknowledging it and, turning his gaze unerringly to where Marthe stood, performed for her lightly a complete Court salutation, his hand on his heart. Then, amusement on his face, he continued on his way leaving behind him Jerott, red with embarrassment, and the smaller of the two captains staring in her direction, his roomy mouth fallen open.
    Other heads, craning, had recognized the woman dealer from theHôtel Gaultier. Marthe turned and, without hurrying, strolled through the dispersing crowd to the rue de la Piatière behind her.
    So, riding by without a glance, Lymond had still noticed her. And telling her so, delivered a warning.
You must do better than this
, that charming greeting conveyed,
if you wish, my dear Marthe, to study me
. It was useful to be reminded that she, too, had tended always to underrate Francis Crawford.
    It was not a mistake she intended to repeat. In a few moments, walking north, she had reached her meeting place.
    The road was full, as usual, of carts coming through the Porte de la Lanterne, and a clutter of stalls, and knots of gossiping people on their way to and from market. Sitting on the steps of the Cross was a small, weather-worn person with a broken nose, working with a knife at a piece of wood. A group of children surrounded him.
    As she approached, he stood up and said something in idiomatic French with a strong Scottish accent, handing the piece of wood as he did so to one of the children. It seemed to be a puppet of some sort. They ran off, laughing and shouting, and the man turned and came towards her.
    Close to, his face was not prepossessing: the grizzled beard more grey than black, and the skin seamed with scars and stiffened with suns hotter than those in Scotland or France. Marthe said, ‘You keep your word, Mr Abernethy. Is Mr Crawford’s wife coming to Lyon?’
    Archie Abernethy, a veteran of more skirmishes than Marthe could have imagined, stopped, cocked his mahogany cranium and said, ‘Aye so, Mistress Blyth; and good day to ye. But ye didna tell me Mr Crawford would be here at the same time, now. Or is that a coincidence?’
    The long-lashed blue eyes held his, peacefully. ‘Does it matter? I told your mistress that a visit would be rewarding. When she died, the Dame de Doubtance left many papers. Mr Crawford may have no interest in his family history, but his wife, I am told, is a tireless investigator. She shall have free access to all the documents. Whether Mr Crawford is here or not, surely, will make no difference.’
    Through a gate in the wall was the small churchyard of Saint-Pierre, with shade under the trees, and some white marble benches. Jerott Blyth’s wife, turning, entered and seated herself. ‘Unless, of course, Mistress Philippa is still afraid of him?’
    Arms folded, the little man stood and considered her. ‘You could say she doesna relish the notion of meeting him. He would be in Russia now but for his wife handing him over to the French ship that captured him.’
    ‘Why? I didn’t know that!’ said Marthe sharply.
    In a liquid gesture, Mr Abernethy expressed helpless ignorance. ‘She didna want him to go back to Russia.’
    ‘I wonder why?’ Marthe said. ‘She hasn’t changed her mind about the