The summer of 1934, windows closed against the heat that pushed in through the drapes, the duke began to complain about his aching throat, the pain radiating from his neck. They were small complaints – “Oh, just a bit of discomfort here,” his hand on his chest – but the way he rubbed at his neck, his strained expression as he swallowed when eating, suggested something more.
In September, days were edged with a hem of cold and the first leaves had begun to turn. It was quiet in the middle of the day. Children had returned to school. The summer people were gone. The duke began to miss meals, and without him at the table, the three of us sat stiffly and said little. In the evenings, Ofelia and the duke began to retreat to their quarters without Sveva, and she was left moving from room to ro
