One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. No, this was imbecile. She did not wince. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face.
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