The only light in the room filtered through the white rice-paper shades drawn over the windows. The flat was silent, except for a faint humming sound coming from the vicinity of Jasmine's bed. Kincaid and Felicity Howarth stepped forward to the foot of the bed in an almost synchronized movement, not speaking, some quality in the room's silence sealing their tongues.
No movement came from the body lying swathed in the bed's swirl of colors, no breath gave rhythmic rise and fall to the chest on which the black cat crouched, purring.
The freesias fell, forgotten, scattering like pick-up sticks across the counterpane.
Chapter Two
"Stupid bloody cow." Roger's voice rose, echoing ominously in the small room. Margaret imagined the heavy clump of her landlady's feet mounting the stairs and reached toward him, as if her gesture might hush him. Mrs. Wilson had threatened more than once to evict Margaret if she caught Roger staying the night, and if she heard them quarrelling at half-past seven in the morning she wouldn't have much doubt about the circumstances.
"Roger, please, for heaven's sake. Mrs. Wilson'll hear you, and you know what she's like-"
"Heaven hasn't much to do with it, my dear Meg, except for the fact that your friend Jasmine's no nearer to it today than she was yesterday, thanks to you." The opportunity for sarcasm kept his volume down, but Margaret felt the coffee she'd gulped rise sourly in her throat.
"Roger, you can't mean that-have you gone mad? I told you she changed her mind. I'm glad she changed her mind-"
"So you can spend every spare second of your time fussing and cooing over her like some dumpy Florence Nightingale? It makes me sick. Why should I hang around? Tell me that, Meg, dear-"
"Shut up, Roger. I've told you not-"
"-to call you that.