I do not see his eyes, he is a black statue against the snow-grey light, but I sense them. I feel his fingers on my skin, on my shoulder blades. He leans against the doorpost, tall and alert. I stare at him. I step backwards and the basket falls from my hand. A turnip rolls to his feet but he does not kick it. ‘Caught you,’ he says. ‘Don’t touch me.’ He lets out a laugh: the snort of a tortured animal. ‘I mean I caught you in the act.’ ‘What act?’ ‘Playing the mistress.’ I decide to push past him. The doorway is too small for the two of us and he makes way for me reluctantly. Then suddenly he grabs me, presses me against himself with one hand, pushing the other inside the neckline of my dress. His hard fingers grope my neck, my shoulders, my back. My nose is filled with his smell, the sweet scent of eau de cologne and the salty scent of sweat. I slap his face and free myself from his grip. I leap up the stone steps to yard level. Down in the depths of the cellar, he laughs his hoarse laugh.
