'Thought you might like this,' he said, ‘it's not home style, but near as I can get. How're you feeling?' She closed the book, laid it on her lap and took the cup. ‘I'm OK.' 'Sempernel was here.' 'Who?' 'The one like a straightened out hairpin. He was just checking we knew the rules.' She drank her coffee with her eyes closed as though taking in visions with the steam. He studied her face and wondered just how much of what was happening she really grasped. At least, if there were listening ears, it made role-play that much easier. He said, 'He was asking about your memoirs. Cissy.' She opened her eyes. 'Memoirs?'

'Yeah. There are these stories in the Press that you wrote up everything that happened at Mickledore Hall, everything that happened afterwards in jail. Somehow you got them smuggled out and they are waiting to be picked up somewhere.' He knew what the answer would be.

They'd had this conversation before. 'It's not true,' she said without heat. 'They're making it up.' ‘That's what I told him. But if there were any memoirs, Cissy, it'd make things a lot easier for me. The book, the film…' 'Which book? Which film?' She regarded him blankly. 'We'll talk about it later,' he said gently. 'It's early days. We'll talk when you're rested.' 'How long will we stay here, Jay?' she asked suddenly. 'You said we'd go home soon. You said – '

This was dangerous. He cut her off, saying, 'We will, Cissy, I promise. Just as soon as Mr Sempernel says it's OK. Don't you like it here?' She shook her head and said, 'Not much.' 'Why's that?' ' I don't know. It feels so old… so English…' 'Yeah. It shouldn't be for long. You rest now, OK?' Her cup was empty. He took it from her hands and she lay back on the patchwork quilt, with her hands crossed over the old leather Bible on her stomach. Her eyes were still open but he got no impression that they were seeing him. In fact he had a strange feeling that if he stayed here much longer he would stop seeing her. He turned and left the room.