He was met at the entrance by his housekeeper, a squarefaced, foul-tempered matron named Mrs. Federico. “I’m a housekeeper, I am,” she squawked, flapping her stained apron at him. “A housekeeper! Not some bleedin’ sexton.” “And a wonderful housekeeper you are, too, Mrs. Federico,” lied Gibson, turning on the Irish and giving her a cajoling smile. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” ʺHmph,ʺ she said, stomping after him down the narrow hall. “I told them, ‘I want nothin’ to do with that thing.’ But did they listen? No. ‘Do you have a key to the buildin’ out the back?’ they ask me. ‘Not bloody likely,ʹ says I. ‘Why, just keepin’ his house and cookin’ his meals is more than a Christian ought to be asked to do,’ says I. ‘Have you seen what he keeps in those jars of his?’ says I.” Gibson poured a tankard of ale from the pitcher in the kitchen and headed out the back door. The jars—or, more properly, their contents—were the excuse Mrs.
What do You think about Where Shadows Dance (2011)?
