Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. The palanquin is hired and so is the procession. I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. He whispered in her ear. Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed. The area was sparsely populated. Not a moment is to be lost.
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