CHAPTER 19Hubert felt the touch of a hand on his forehead. A small, white-haired woman was sitting next to his bed. He noticed the octagonal shape of her glasses. The smell of sickbed pervaded the room, along with the soothing fragrance of chamomile. The white curtains moved and made giant patterns dance. Whatever world he was coming to, it harbored such things as moiré patterns. The laws of physics did apply, a thought that provided instant comfort.
“He just opened his eyes,” said a soft, familiar voice in the Austrian sing-song variety of German: the voice that belonged to Aunt Frieda. There had to be someone else in the room, but whoever it was did not answer and was hidden from Hubert's view. Whoever it was, Hubert did not like him, and he decided to keep his conversation to a bare mi
