The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. \"With a last name like Albert?\" Michelle responded. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. He seemed too noisy.
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