Tom had automatically picked up the oily rag that lived on the corner of Grey's...

Tom had automatically picked up the oily rag that lived on the corner of Grey's desk and, with a dexterous flick, snapped a fat fly out of the air and into oblivion. "Dead whale garnished with mint? That should cause my blood to be especially attractive to the more discriminating biting insects in Charles Town-to say nothing of Canada." Jamaican flies were a nuisance but seldom carnivorous, and the sea breeze and muslin window screening kept most mosquitoes at bay. The swamps of coastal America, though…and the deep Canadian woods, his ultimate destination… "No," Grey said reluctantly, scratching his neck at the mere thought of Canadian deer flies. "I can't attend Mr. Mullryne's celebration of his new plantation house basted in whale oil. Perhaps we can get bear grease in South Carolina. Meanwhile…sweet oil, perhaps?

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