CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
As Divers O’Roarke set his hat on the library table, the one that now might not see the wonderful brass goblets gleaming by the firelight’s flame at Christmas, something that would only bring a tear to her eye to consider, if she’d any left to cry, Destiny knew one thing. Task one was not Doom Bar Hall. Task one was getting her hair—what there was of it anyway—to stop standing on end.
“So?” His hat was followed by his coat which flumped into the sunken armchair by the empty fireplace with the pile of rubble on the floor. “Would you mind telling me why you lied?”
“Me? Divers?”
“Well, I’m certainly not meaning your grandfather’s parrots.”
Frankly? Never mind him being that stupid he didn’t know, she wasn’t about to incriminate herself further by saying, 'Well, I couldn't exactly tell Lyon you were the Cleanser, when you were sodding well standing there, now could I?’
“In what way exactly?” she asked.