“What? Carlyle!” Thisbe recognized her first, rising with a despairing condescension on her face. “Oh, you idiot!” It was Carlyle indeed, shivering like a fevered child as the drug magnified the after-stress of Dominic’s ‘session,’ a cocktail worse than vertigo. It has been four hours since we left Carlyle, switching off her tracker in Dominic’s cell, and the flight from Paris to Cielo de Pájaros takes barely one. Lesley sighed like a melting snowdrift. “Again? I really liked this one, too.”
