Barnaby had taken advantage of the lull to sequester himself deeper in the shrubbery. Pity about the orange shirt (not that much of the original colour was left) -- if only it was autumn, then he might have had a little extra camouflage.

He worried at his lower lip with his teeth, fidgeting. It was the waiting that was the killer, he thought. A metal sprinkler head was digging into his hip, but the angels seemed to be done talking, and moving would rustle the leaves.