“This is not what it appears to be.” We sounded like school children caught out. Hawkes switched his book from beneath one arm to the other. Then, with his hands restored to his pockets, he leaned his shoulders forward against some invisible wind. “It appears Miss Lion has been participating in some dancing performance of one sort or another and that Islington is not pleased with the idea.” He then considered both of us with a solemn expression. “Have I read the situation correctly?” I snorted, and Islington glared at me.
