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willing to admit the fact. If not, then it would cause her needless distress to learn that all those years ago her husband acted so ruthlessly in rejecting his daughter’s move toward a reconciliation.”
    “But as it is, her bitterness is all directed against poor Mama,” I protested.
    “I understand how you feel, Elinor,” my uncle said in a tone of surprising gentleness. “But if you consider it, you will agree that nothing but harm will result from reopening old wounds.”
    I heard Carlota’s gasp of impatience and, glancing around quickly, I intercepted the look she shot down the table at her husband, a look of scorn and contempt. I turned back to him. He was staring down at the food on his plate, carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes. Carlota, I decided, cared nothing for other people’s sensibilities. She clearly thought her husband a weak, spineless fool, because he wanted to spare his stepmother pain and at the same time soothe my injured feelings. And as for Affonso himself, I suspected that he was half afraid of his wife. Whatever it was that held these two together, it was not love, not even affection. Probably, I thought, their marriage was the kind of “arranged” marriage that my grandparents had expected of my mother.
    Directly the meal was over, I excused myself and withdrew. I felt strangely tired after the events of the day. Upstairs, my room was softly illumined by lamplight, and all had been made ready for me, the bedcovers turned back, my nightgown laid out. I was surprised, and a little dismayed, to see a fire burning in the grate. Although it had turned a little cooler since sunset, the evening still felt very mild to me, accustomed as I was to a more northerly clime. I went at once to the window, drew back the peacock blue curtains, and threw open the casements to let in some fresh air.
    Outside it was very dark and silent, except for the soft plashing of the fountains and the faintest rustle of a breeze. Presently, my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and the pale starglow was enough for me to pick out the terrace balustrades and the phantom shapes of the statuary. Somewhere far off a dog howled. It was an indescribably desolate sound, like a fateful cry of longing, the sad despair of an aching heart.
    In the darkness at the end of the valley a pinpoint of light suddenly twinkled. As I watched, I realized that it was moving, purposefully, with infinite slowness. A ship at sea, I surmised. I wondered if perhaps it was heading for the shores of England, a thousand miles away. Feeling a strange tightness in my throat, I closed the windows and started to undress. When I had extinguished the lamps, the firelight still flickered, catching the tall mirror and casting weird, writhing shadows. I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up high, and tried to compose myself for sleep.
    * * * *
    I awoke to pitch darkness. The fire had died to ashes, so I could tell it was far into the night. Everything was hushed, but I knew that some sound had disturbed me.
    Then I heard it again, the faint creak of the door. A sliver of light fell across the carpet. I sat up, tense with alarm. Who would come to my room stealthily, in the small hours? For what possible reason? The shaft of light broadened as the door opened wider, and I saw a two-branched candelabra held aloft. It was borne by a small ghostly figure in a white nightgown. Then I saw who it was and felt a wave of relief.
    “Grandmama. What is it?” I whispered softly.
    She gave no answer but advanced toward me, moving rather stiffly. Holding the blankets up to my chin, I watched her wonderingly, sensing something strange. She drew closer until she was right beside the bed and stood gazing down at me. Then she lifted the silver-gilt candelabra still higher and held it poised above my head—as though she intended to bring it crashing down upon me.
    I froze with fear, knowing instinctively that to cry out for help would only heighten any danger I was in.