Murphy frowned.
'How could she not be here?'
He looked out the window. The night was deep, and the lights of Taymer Palace twinkled in the distance.
If Margaret were here and knew he had arrived, she would have come out to see him. It was impossible that she wouldn't.
Eleanor, buried in his embrace, said in a muffled voice, "She's not here. She's just... not."
Murphy lowered his head, intending to pull her from his arms to ask her what was going on, but he suddenly felt the front of his shirt grow damp.
Warm and wet, the moisture slowly spread.
His movements froze.
Eleanor's shoulders began to tremble.
This wasn't the playful, cunning quiver she'd had before. It was a genuine, irrepressible, violent shudder that came from deep within her.
"Eleanor?"
Murphy's voice grew grave.
Eleanor didn't answer. She just buried her face deeper, her hands clutching his shirt tightly.
Murphy could feel the warm liquid continuing to flow, soaking his clothes and the back of his hand.
