I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. But those days are over—quite over. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. "There's nothing in his clothes. Blood, they say, won't come out. I'm burning up. His sister followed.
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