It’s your first evening, and early impressions do count for so much. 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. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. But you belong to me—and I want you.
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