‘Fitz. You know I love you, don’t you?’ I halted where I stood. ‘I’d hate to have to kill you,’ he continued. I recognized his adept imitation of my own voice and inflection. I stared at him, baffled. He sat up taller and glanced over the back of his chair at me with a pained smile. ‘Never again attempt to put my clothing away,’ he warned me. ‘Verulean silk should be draped for storage. Not wadded.’ ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ I promised him humbly. He settled back in his chair and picked up his glass of wine. ‘Good night, Fitz,’ he told me quietly.
