Hearing it, I start to my feet, the weight of the tapes try I have been working on pulling it from my fingers. Cloud-Marie gargles thickly in dismay and begins to gather the fabric up from the floor. It is densely embroidered and difficult to handle. When she has managed to heave it onto the rack, she turns her big pale face to me and I wonder if she heard what I heard. One of her eyes regards me with great intensity while the other turns slowly away. I have always seen the drift of that wayward eye as an omen, and more than one decision has been dictated by its movement. I think of the colour of the sky when I woke this morning: bruise-coloured with tinges of unhealthy yellow; an autumn sky. It used to be my favourite season. I loved the way the thick light soaked any wall in a slow buttery radiance, the rustling susurrus of dried brown leaves sliding along the pavement. Now it seems to me a season of fading sorrow. It was the very end of autumn when first I came to that city which is the gateway to this place.
