CHAPTER FOURTEENWhen the bell has finished I descend the stairs, a brief waif in the eye of glass that hangs on the downstairs wall. The clock ticks with its pendulum, keeping time; my feet in their neat red shoes count the way down.
The sitting-room door is wide open. I go in: so far no one else is here. I don’t sit, but take my place, kneeling, near the chair with the footstool where Serena Joy will shortly enthrone herself, leaning on her cane while she lowers herself down. Possibly she’ll put a hand on my shoulder, to steady herself, as if I’m a piece of furniture. She’s done it before.
The sitting room would once have been called a drawing room, perhaps; then a living room. Or maybe it’s a parlour, the kind with a spider and flies. But now it’s officially a sitting room, because tha
