“This,” said Bradford Bertram-Mogg, materialising beside Luke with the air of a horseman of the apocalypse and scowling up at Posy, who was nimbly pirouetting on the very edge of a balcony in her quest to reach a particular leaf on a vine, “is what comes of allowing foreigners into the Guild.” “Not that it should make any difference, but we’re Scottish,” Luke said coldly. “Exactly,” said Bertram-Mogg.
