Twenty-Three
Memory 13
I turned up on his doorstep at precisely five pm.
Viggo appreciated—no, expected—punctuality. I’d learned this the hard way on the sole occasion when I’d been late for one of our now-weekly study sessions. His face remained impassive as ever, but he did say, pointedly, “Oh, hello, Constance. I’d assumed you weren’t coming. I thought we’d agreed on five pm?”
It was seven minutes past five.
I knew now to be on time and I also knew to ring the doorbell (knocking is “uncouth”), and only once, and then wait patiently for Viggo to answer, which he always did within thirty seconds of my ringing.
I’d timed it.
Except, this day, Viggo didn’t answer the doorbell.
And I heard, instead of Brahms or Beethoven wafting serenely up the hallway towards me, the familiar thumpi
