Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will. Listen to me, Thames. 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. Oddly, Sebastian chose to be charioteer. Come in! Come in, do.
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