. “That’s a weird name. ’ ‘For shame, Hilary,’ admonished his fiancée, casting a pitying glance at the refugees. Are these folks your current foster parents?” “Yes. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her.
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