This child was frequently disconcerting. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock.
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