here. But perhaps you would rather dwell among lunatics, than among books? Hmm?''
''No, Uncle.''
He pauses. I think he will return to his notes. But he goes on.
''It would be a simple matter enough, to summon Mrs Stiles and have her take you back. You are sure you don''t desire me to do that?—send for William Inker and the dog-cart?'' As he speaks, he leans to study me, his weak gaze fierce behind the spectacles that guard it. Then he pauses again, and almost smiles. ''What would they make of you upon the wards, I wonder,'' he says, in a different voice, ''with all that you know now?''
He says it slowly, then mumbles the question over; as if it is a biscuit that has left crumbs beneath his tongue. I do not answer, but lower my gaze until he has worked his humour out. Presently he twists his neck and looks again at the pages upon his desk.
''So, so. The Whipping Milliners. Read me the second volume, with the punctuation all complete; and mark—the paging is irregular. I''ll note the sequence here.''
It is from this that I am reading when she comes to take me back to my drawing-room. She stands at the door, looking over the walls of books, the painted windows. She hovers at the pointing finger that my uncle keeps to mark the bounds of innocence at Briar, just as I once did; and—again, like me—in her innocence she does not see it,
and tries to cross it. I must keep her from that, more even than my uncle must!—and while he jerks and screams I go softly to her, and touch her. She flinches at the feel of my fingers.