Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. She was carefree. “This is Mr. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone. ’ ‘You say—what?’ gasped Melusine. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational.
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