“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. Michelle listed the items in her pack. She turned towards the door, and had taken a pace towards it when it was flung open. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. It will be hot work, but it must be done at once.
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