He was writing at a rolltop desk and facing away from me when I entered with a doorcreak. Lambent sunlight played through dust and glass vessels. ‘Hello Verger. Weather’s brightened up.’ ‘I’ll be the judge of that, laughing boy,’ he said without taking his eyes from his work I scuffed aimlessly. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Nothing of interest to the lustful.’ I pottered around the room, trailing a finger through shelfdust and scrutinising murky jars. ‘I say, Verger - is this a dove you’ve preserved?’ The Verger turned, raised his eyebrows and stood enraged, storming over. ‘No business of yours, hell-child,’ he thundered, yanking at the jar with such force that it flew over his shoulder and exploded against a wall. The Verger roared me down the stairs to Father’s study. ‘Bottomless arrogance,’ he told him. ‘Uncontrollable urges. Smirking evil.’ ‘In English, Verger.’ ‘Well there was I in the precious sanctuary of the tower when laughing boy here pranced in and made a remark.
