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“It is not a hope, but an inevitability,” he said slowly, as though doubting her wit. “We have important matters to discuss.”

Her panic mounted. She focused on a point above his left shoulder.

“Then I hate to bring such tragic news.” What was she saying? She listened to the words issuing from her mouth, as much a spectator as the man she addressed.

“Mr. Coover is dead. Has died. Just the other day.”

Another corpse. Dammit.

She didn’t dare look at his face.

“Terribly sad,” she continued. “Were you very dear friends? My condolences.”

These sympathies—which took her completely by surprise—seemed to warrant her bestowing upon the bereaved a kind and forthright look. She risked looking up at him, lips pressed into a sad smile.

A mistake. His brows had climbed again, and his expression did not encourage further compassionating.

She glanced toward the door. “I really must be going. I’m wanted in the canteen. We are taking up a collection for the widow.”

Dammit. Dammit.

“How very kind.” Her corpse approached. She had no choice but to look at him, he was so large and so close.

“She will be solaced, I’m sure. It was quite unexpected?”

“Very much so.” Her voice continued smoothly and she marveled at herself. Her mother used to scold her for telling tales, and it seemed she hadn’t lost the knack of it.

“He was sketching in a field . . .” What were they called? With animals? She knew nothing of the countryside firsthand.

“A pasture,” she said. “He was consumed with his work and didn’t notice the danger until it was too late. He was trampled. By cows. And a bull. Gored and trampled.”

That should finish him. She shuddered at the pathetic scene. Cows rearing on their hind legs. Blood staining the clover. Peasants in the distance, pointing. The fatal moment captured in the style of Gainsborough.

“It’s a great loss for the Academy.”

He was watching her closely. Too closely. How much better she had liked him when his eyes were shut!

“Now,” she said briskly. “Shall I show you out? You really aren’t allowed to be down here. The policy is terribly strict.”

She made for the classroom door. If she could get him out of the building before he asked any questions, there was a chance that all would end well.

She looked back. He hadn’t budged. She raised an eyebrow and tipped her head, smiling to encourage him. She refrained from beckoning as she would to Mr. Malkin.

Ch-ch-ch. Here, puss. Come along.

Her corpse seemed to come to some independent decision. In four strides, he’d reached the door and extended his elbow. Offering to escort her.

“Forgive my discourtesy,” he said smoothly. “We haven’t made a proper introduction.”

Her response was automatic.

“Lucy,” she began, and stuttered.

A proper introduction would hardly do in the present circumstances.

“Miss Lucy,” she said.

She touched his sleeve, trying to keep the pressure of her fingertips so light she would feel only fabric, no hint of the flesh beneath.