My cook is down there—don’t forget he is on strike.’
Sally stared at the door, and back at her husband. ‘Is he that terrifying?’
‘Let us just say he is French.’ He peered closer. ‘Right now, you are probably asking yourself how on earth you let yourself be talked into marriage to a certified lunatic and life in a house of, well, if not ill repute, then very bad art.’
He started to say something else, but he was interrupted by a crack from the front entrance and the sound of bushes shaking. ‘I think Penelope has more on her tiny mind now than Odysseus’s continued absence,’ Bright murmured. ‘I will choose discretion over valour, and not even ask what you think of all this.’
You would be surprised, Admiral, she thought. I have never been so diverted. Sally took his arm and opened the door. ‘I think it is time I met your cook.’
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