I turned back at the door to glance one last time, and left satisfied -- even my eyes, that knew where to look, could determine no sign of a hidden observer in the little loft. Lady Blakeney, barring treachery on Brogard's part (and I had paid him lavishly enough to hopefully forestall that ) was utterly safe from anyone who might enter the Chat Gris.
The night was still dark, the moon hiding, and though the air was balmy I shivered, heated and frigid by turns. I had gone perhaps half a mile on this useless, foolish errand -- to wander at random a large coastal city, looking for but one man, and he a man who must be trying very hard, as always, to elude all seekers -- when the transient vitality, born of fear and necessity, and the fleeting adrenaline that had buoyed me up in fits and spurts since Marguerite's revelation, began to fade.
My limbs were impossibly heavy, the blood pounding in my head -- my hands were cold, but when I touched one to my brow, pushing away sweat, my face burned. I pulled my cloak more tightly around me, both against the desperate chill that swept over me and afraid, well dressed as I was, to draw negative attention in this country where to be comfortable was to deserve condemnation.