Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. You can’t go. It heralded you, promised you. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. I love you—unendurably. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said.
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