They had not yet lit the lamp. The setting sun splashed scarlet across the sky above the roofs of the square and the room was briefly on fire around them. They sat opposite one another at the table, books spread. Flora did not speak, could not have told what had happened. That day was packed tight painfully within her: she did not understand it, was unable to clear her thoughts, but only sat mute and pale in the small sitting room among the drapes and cushions. She had returned to find Leila working quietly at marking her pupils’ books and the sight of her and her stillness had calmed her and taken the edge off her fear. They had had tea. She had made a show of working. ‘Something has happened.’ Leila Watson seemed suddenly older and infinitely wise, knowing her own mind calmly, seeing her own way ahead. The sky darkened and the walls of the room closed in upon them. There were clouds, gunmetal grey, bramble black, where the sun had been and, for a moment, desperately, Flora looked at the sky as on a picture in the frame of the window.
