CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Almost every evening after kissing Willmouse goodnight and handing him to the nursemaid, Mary sat at her writing desk, quill in hand, and stared thoughtfully through the thirty-two panes of glass that rose before her Maggiolini at the blue lanterns of the gendarmerie bobbing back and forth about the hillsides above Montreux. Looking. Searching. Probing. Her window gave her ample view of the far-off proceedings, which she steadfastly wove into her own evolving ghost story.
Her writing was also influenced by a subtle change in the demeanor of the men in summer residence at the villa. Their conversations terminated abruptly whenever she walked into the study or onto the terrace, where they had congregated away from the women. At first it had amused her, thinking she’d disru
