The public house, a dark, low-ceilinged Elizabethan building lit by a haze of candles, was beginning to fill with diners of various shapes and sizes by the time they reached it. Lancelot and the Scarlet Pimpernel drank foaming beer by the window, Lancelot discoursing on the relative merits of broadswords in heavily accented Middle English. The Artful held court at a table in the corner, hiding a ball under a cup and shifting it rapidly as the Darcys watched. The White Witch sat alone at the bar, as cool and forbidding as a 1940s noir heroine. (“The silver Harley-Davidson on the curb is hers,”
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