At least I can’t talk to them. James’ Park?” Anna nodded, and made a careful selection from a dish of quails. She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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