Seventy-three

Pyrgus stood up cautiously.

He and his men – his men! – were at the rendezvous spot, a small ornamental grove on the far side of the lake from the main house, but there was no sign of Nymph or any of her Forest Faerie. It was a worrying development. If she was late, she was late, but if she wasn’t coming at all, how long was he supposed to wait? By now Ogyris would know about the shattered glasshouse. There’d be new security in place – a contingent of crack guards at the very least. Which meant a fight. One Pyrgus would rather tackle with the Forest Faerie at his side.

There was something at his back. Pyrgus jumped half out of his skin when a hand fell on his shoulder.

‘Nymph!’ he exclaimed. He fought down an almost overpowering urge to throw his arms around her and kiss her. Instead he simply stood there, grinning like an idiot.

‘What’s that thing on your head?’ Nymph asked curiously.

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