CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When she noticed the brooch on George’s windowsill the next morning, she snatched it from sight and placed it in the pocket of her cardigan. She had been made privy to the darkness in Lynnwood, her eyes had been opened to the truths behind Midwinter, and the brooch seemed all the more horrible for it; a thing of delicate beauty in the shape of indelicate hunger, as though commemorating that night and the gaping mouths that filled it. Theirs was an insatiable society. Fine wines, foie gras, blue cheeses and long pork; they consumed these things without conscience. She supposed it was the natural way. Eaton had shown no remorse when chewing on the magpie, and she had lost count of the number of sparrows deposited by Merlot on Catherine’s doorstep.
“Sit down,” she told Geor
