Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers.
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