Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. This is where my character, Lucia, is coming from. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. You never can tell. Lucy clapped a hand over Michelle’s mouth and struck her neck with a swift blow to the carotid artery.
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