CHAPTER FORTY-THREEI woke to a beam of pale, early light drifting into the room. Instinctively, I looked towards the fire. It had gone out and the chair beside it was empty. For a moment, I felt disappointed, but even as I berated myself for idiocy, I became conscious of someone breathing beside me.
Slowly, I lifted my head, turning over on the bed; and there, beside me, lay the motionless, sleeping figure of Lajos Lázár. Dressed in his shirt and trousers, he was lying on his back on top of the coverlet, one arm flung up across his forehead. I had never seen him asleep before. Wonderingly, I gazed down on the still, impassive face. There was a faint frown between his closed eyes that I wanted to smooth away, along with the deep, weary lines that made him appear so much older than his year
