He was followed by his companion of the last few moments, a man with pistol drawn who had met him at the entrance to the women’s wing and followed him wordlessly as he made his way through the maze of hallways, offering no suggestions on which way to go. “I assume this is the way to see MacIver,” Bridgewater said. The man didn’t answer. “Not much for conversation, are you?” Bridgewater had donned his coat and straightened his clothes before leaving Panna to settle Mrs. Brownlow, who’d wailed, “Your mother’s heart will be breaking.” Why he’d expected a polite welcome from his grandfather, he didn’t know. Clearly the man was as bitter now as the day his daughter had told him she was with child by an English nobleman. He reached the top of the stairs and turned to the right, following the path of a servant carrying a tray. “I assume you’ll let me know—or shoot me—if I am proceeding in the wrong direction.” “Shoot you more’s the likely,” the man with the pistol said.
