over.’
Triss flinched violently, and started shaking. The words recalled too vividly those from her nightmare, and for some reason they filled her with an uncontrollable terror.
‘Triss! What’s wrong?’ Her mother started to reach out a hand towards her, but Triss recoiled from her.
‘Headache!’ she managed to squeak out, and fled from the room.
The medical cabinet was raided for all its emergency troops. Now there were rows of bottles lined up on Triss’s bedside. Lying muffled to the chin in her bedclothes,
Triss surveyed their ranks, without feeling much reassurance. Would any of those bottles prevent her falling into leaves? Would syrup of figs rescue Sebastian? She didn’t think so. Nor did
she hold out much hope for the effectiveness of the camphor in the bowl of hot water by her bed, or the moistened flannel across her forehead.
She was to spend the day in bed. She knew that once she would have accepted this. Now watching the hours roll by was torture. What was she doing – waiting to fall apart or go mad?
Four
days, four days, four days
. . . Why did those words keep going through her head? She could not understand how she had ever been able to bear just
lying there
in bed, getting paler
and frailer while the world went on without her.
Triss heard the clocks strike two, and kicked off the covers, feeling too hot to stand them. When she pressed her face against the window, the coolness gave her some relief. Her room smelt
stale, and the grey, impatient energy of the wind outside drew her, making her want to fling open her window.
Triss heard a car door slam. There was a small, blue Morris parked on the other side of the square, she realized, and somebody had just got out, his figure somewhat obscured by the trees on the
central green.
As he drew closer, Triss recognized him. It was Mr Grace, the tailor who had played her jazz and told her to eat cake the day before. As she watched, he walked up to the Crescents’ front
door, and a moment later she heard the bell sound.
Triss’s initial fizz of joyful recognition turned a moment later to confusion. Why was he here? What if her parents met him, and found out that he was a jazz sort of a person? Perhaps she
would not be allowed to go back to his shop.
What
was
he doing here?
With a stealth that was becoming second nature, Triss slipped out of her room and to the head of the stairs. Since Margaret had departed for the day, it was her mother who had answered the door.
Cook was notoriously deaf and claimed that she could never hear the bell. Triss did not dare peer around the corner for fear of being seen, but remained where she was, listening.
‘. . . so sorry to disturb you.’ The tailor’s voice was just audible. ‘Mrs Piers Crescent? My name is Jacob Grace of Grace & Scarp – your husband and daughter
visited our establishment yesterday.’
‘Oh – you’re from the dressmakers’?’ Triss’s mother sounded perplexed and a bit flustered. ‘But . . . I understood the first fitting appointment was set
for next week . . .’
‘Yes, indeed. But it seems your daughter left her gloves in our VIP room, and since I was passing by I thought I would drop them off.’
‘Oh, I see! How very kind.’ Pause. ‘Er . . . I am sorry, Mr Grace, but these do not actually belong to Triss.’
‘Really?’ The tailor sounded taken aback. ‘Oh. Well, how very stupid of me! They were so small I thought they must be hers. In that case, my sincere apologies for bothering
you.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’ Her mother’s tone had thawed a little.
‘Oh, not at all, I was glad of a chance to ask how the young lady was faring today in any case.’
‘Theresa is . . . well, I think that she has recovered from the shock she received in your shop, if that is what you are asking.’
‘Actually, that was not what I was asking.’ For the first time Mr Grace sounded serious and somewhat hesitant. ‘Mrs Crescent, I had the
Triss flinched violently, and started shaking. The words recalled too vividly those from her nightmare, and for some reason they filled her with an uncontrollable terror.
‘Triss! What’s wrong?’ Her mother started to reach out a hand towards her, but Triss recoiled from her.
‘Headache!’ she managed to squeak out, and fled from the room.
The medical cabinet was raided for all its emergency troops. Now there were rows of bottles lined up on Triss’s bedside. Lying muffled to the chin in her bedclothes,
Triss surveyed their ranks, without feeling much reassurance. Would any of those bottles prevent her falling into leaves? Would syrup of figs rescue Sebastian? She didn’t think so. Nor did
she hold out much hope for the effectiveness of the camphor in the bowl of hot water by her bed, or the moistened flannel across her forehead.
She was to spend the day in bed. She knew that once she would have accepted this. Now watching the hours roll by was torture. What was she doing – waiting to fall apart or go mad?
Four
days, four days, four days
. . . Why did those words keep going through her head? She could not understand how she had ever been able to bear just
lying there
in bed, getting paler
and frailer while the world went on without her.
Triss heard the clocks strike two, and kicked off the covers, feeling too hot to stand them. When she pressed her face against the window, the coolness gave her some relief. Her room smelt
stale, and the grey, impatient energy of the wind outside drew her, making her want to fling open her window.
Triss heard a car door slam. There was a small, blue Morris parked on the other side of the square, she realized, and somebody had just got out, his figure somewhat obscured by the trees on the
central green.
As he drew closer, Triss recognized him. It was Mr Grace, the tailor who had played her jazz and told her to eat cake the day before. As she watched, he walked up to the Crescents’ front
door, and a moment later she heard the bell sound.
Triss’s initial fizz of joyful recognition turned a moment later to confusion. Why was he here? What if her parents met him, and found out that he was a jazz sort of a person? Perhaps she
would not be allowed to go back to his shop.
What
was
he doing here?
With a stealth that was becoming second nature, Triss slipped out of her room and to the head of the stairs. Since Margaret had departed for the day, it was her mother who had answered the door.
Cook was notoriously deaf and claimed that she could never hear the bell. Triss did not dare peer around the corner for fear of being seen, but remained where she was, listening.
‘. . . so sorry to disturb you.’ The tailor’s voice was just audible. ‘Mrs Piers Crescent? My name is Jacob Grace of Grace & Scarp – your husband and daughter
visited our establishment yesterday.’
‘Oh – you’re from the dressmakers’?’ Triss’s mother sounded perplexed and a bit flustered. ‘But . . . I understood the first fitting appointment was set
for next week . . .’
‘Yes, indeed. But it seems your daughter left her gloves in our VIP room, and since I was passing by I thought I would drop them off.’
‘Oh, I see! How very kind.’ Pause. ‘Er . . . I am sorry, Mr Grace, but these do not actually belong to Triss.’
‘Really?’ The tailor sounded taken aback. ‘Oh. Well, how very stupid of me! They were so small I thought they must be hers. In that case, my sincere apologies for bothering
you.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’ Her mother’s tone had thawed a little.
‘Oh, not at all, I was glad of a chance to ask how the young lady was faring today in any case.’
‘Theresa is . . . well, I think that she has recovered from the shock she received in your shop, if that is what you are asking.’
‘Actually, that was not what I was asking.’ For the first time Mr Grace sounded serious and somewhat hesitant. ‘Mrs Crescent, I had the
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