“I have,” he said, as if he were still out of breath. “I’ve just returned. Cake?” Then he lifted his right hand, which held a plate of fine bone china with a fat, tired slice of cake lying on its side. Thrusting it towards me, Hawkes waited for me to take it before he said, “Open your window. A scented breeze fit for Oberon’s court.” Then, “Don’t worry, Emma Lion.”
