In the summer, when she had come to this house, she had experienced an electric thrill like dry lightning. The saying of the mass in the warmth of a June night, the candlelight, the serene procession of the communicants, like some holy dance, moving as one as though they all floated on air. The crystal singing in the cathedral of the trees. As she sipped the wine and imbibed the host, she had felt the blood and flesh of Christ enter her. There had been a mystical quality and she had felt at one with her God. Later, in the light of day, she had been less certain. Now she knew she had been deluded. This place was cold and all her memories seemed like dust. ‘Enter,’ Somerville said, waving his pistol in their faces. ‘Mr Arden is in the library with the Scotchman. I’ll see if he will receive you.’ Anne looked at Will. His face was drawn. She knew he liked this even less than she did. He had come here this chilly autumn night because he was loyal to her, and because he was concerned for her.
