Jones was speaking, too, in his more quiet and measured voice, which told Cordelia that it was something to do with the business and that she would learn of it eventually. But her body was still pliant with sleep, and she didn’t feel like talking to her brother when he was angry. Twisting her long, loose braid over her shoulder, Cordelia proceeded to the first floor and found Len, the cook, reading that morning’s funnies with his foot up on a chair.“What can I get you, Miss Grey?”“I’ll have coffee and orange juice and a croissant,” she replied, and then went out to the verandah.It was a little strange, saying the word croissant to a man like Len, who had only one leg and whose talents tended more to spaghetti with meatballs. But Darius had always liked fine things, and his daughter was getting used to asking for them. On the verandah, she adjusted her light linen shift and sat down in the elaborately curving white iron chair.The sky was thick with formless, gray clouds tinged slightly yellow by a sun that was—Cordelia assumed, though she could not see it—approaching its height.
