I miss him, my lady.” “Well, he is now living adjacent. You can hardly miss him all that much.” “True. But we are no longer compatible—I am a werewolf; he is a vampire.” “So?” “So we cannot dance the same dance we used to.” Biffy was so sweet when he tried to be circumspect. Alexia shook her head at him. “Biffy, and I mean this in the kindest way possible: then you should change the music.” “Very good, my lady.

Lady Maccon cogitated. She would like to encourage this new spirit of social-mindedness. If Felicity needed anything in her life, it was a cause. Then she might stop nitpicking everyone else.

Madame Lefoux accepted a cup of tea and sat on another little settee, next to the relocated calico cat. The cat clearly believed Madame Lefoux was there to provide chin scratches. Madame Lefoux provided.

Alexia gave in to his demanding touch, but only, of course, because he sounded so pathetic. It had nothing, whatsoever to do with her own quickening heartbeat.

What did you do?” “Well, you see, there was this pot of tea, simply sitting there…” He trailed off. “Useful thing, tea,” commented Lyall thoughtfully.

Lord Maccon believed that if his trousers were on his legs, and something else was on his torso, he was dressed. The less done after that, the better. His wife had been startled to find that in the summertime, he actually went around their room barefoot! Once -- and only once, mind you -- he even attempted to join her for tea in such a state. Impossible man. Alexia put a stop to that posthaste.

Lord Maccon looked up. “Grovel, you say?” Lyall did not glance away from the latest vampire report he was perusing. “Grovel, my lord.