To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. That was the only sound he heard. Then the foremost bowed and passed on. Ah, no, I have it wrong. There is no other way. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. Gianfrancesco was a contact of mine, I had allied myself to his father before him, and unbeknownst to anyone, to his Great-great-granduncle during the time of Crusades. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not.
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