"God!" he burst out. "I cannot wait until you leave. You, Caroline Trent, are the devil's own daughter. You are plague. You are pestilence. You are-"

"Oh, shut up!" She yanked the drawer back open, disgusted with how much his words stung. She didn't like Percy any better than he liked her, but who would enjoy being compared to locusts, gnats, and frogs; the Black Death; and rivers turning to blood? "Where is the money?" she demanded.

"In my stocking... no, the black one... no, not that black one... yes, over there, next to the... yes, that's it."

Caroline found the stocking in question and shook out some bills and coins. "Good heavens, Percy, you must have a hundred pounds here. Where did you get this much?"

"I've been saving for quite some time. And I nick a coin or two each month from Father's desk. As long as I don't take too much, he never notices." . Caroline found that hard to believe; Oliver Prew-itt was so obsessed with money it was a wonder his skin hadn't turned the color of pound notes.

"You can take half of it," Percy said.

"Only half? Don't be stupid, Percy. I need to hide for six weeks. I may have unexpected expenses."

"I may have unexpected expenses."

"You have a roof over your head!" she burst out.

"I might not, once Father discovers I let you get away."

Caroline had to concede his point. Oliver Prewitt was not going to be pleased with his only son. She dumped half the money back into the stocking. "Very well," she said, stuffing her share into her pocket. "You have the bleeding under control?"

"You won't be charged with murder, if that's what you're worried about."

"It may be difficult for you to believe, Percy, but I don't want you to die. I don't want to marry you, and I certainly won't be sorry if I never clap eyes on you again, but I don't want you to die."