It’s not in the room with her, thank God. It’s coming from down below, from the mews behind the house, where only horses, drunks and thieves usually go. The voice is singing, serenading her, right under her window.To Hell with you, Sugar thinks, and covers her head with a pillow.The voice sings on. It is not the voice of the man who shared her bed last night. He’s lost in his own drunken slumber miles away from here, hidden inside his respectable, fragrant family home. No, this is a woman’s voice, fruity and righteous.Dark and cheerless is the mornUnaccompanied by Thee …Sugar groans. The morn is nowhere near as dark as she’d like it to be: sunlight streams through the windowpane, winkling her out of her sweet oblivion. The pillow over her head is no help at all, nor does the extra swaddling provided by her fleecy hair make any difference. Worse, the pillowcase stinks horribly of a man’s hair-oil, despite the fact that her last customer was dispatched sixteen hours ago; if she presses the pillow any harder against her face she’ll suffocate.
