''s room, look.''
She knocks, then takes me in. He has had paint put on the windows years before, and the winter sun striking the glass, the room is lit strangely. The walls are dark with the spines of books. I think them a kind of frieze or carving. I know only two books, and one is black and creased about the spine—that is the Bible. The other is a book of hymns thought suitable for the demented; and that is pink. I suppose all printed words to be true ones.
The woman sets me very near the door and stands at my back, her hands like claws upon my shoulders. The man they have called my uncle rises from behind his desk; its surface is hidden by a mess of papers. Upon his head is a velvet cap with a swinging tassel on a fraying thread. Before his eyes is another, paler, pair of coloured glasses.
''So, miss,'' he says, stepping towards me, moving his jaw. The woman makes a curtsey. ''How is her temper, Mrs Stiles?'' he asks her.
''Rather ill, sir.''
''I can see it, in her eye. Where are her gloves?''
''Threw them aside, sir. Wouldn''t have them.''
My uncle comes close. ''An unhappy beginning. Give me your hand, Maud.''
I will not give it. The woman catches my arm about the wrist and lifts it. My hand is small, and plump at the knuckles. I am used to washing with madhouse soap, which is not kind. My nails are dark, with madhouse dirt. My uncle holds my finger-ends. His own hand has a smear or two of ink upon it. He shakes his head.