Ignoring the screams from the cellar, Lord Garnthorpe looked around the room.
Is it too austere? he wondered again. He had instructed his upholsterer that it be decorated plainly, for the room was to function as much as a place of contemplation as a chamber for daily living. The man had obeyed, whitewashing the walls to obliterate the crude scenes of country life painted on them in case any should lift the woven hangings he then hung from ceiling to floor. However, since their weave was of a uniform brown, they made the room appear even smaller than it was. The only things that relieved the uniformity were the oak door, the window cavity from which all the glass had been removed save one small panel, and the single decoration he had allowed: a painting of some saint in the very moment of
