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keeps its face in shadow. The voice is sighing and soft and sibilant. A lisp.
A hiss.
“What a fine little mess you’ve made,” it tuts fondly.
The figure moves out of the moonlight and offers a hand down the
stairs, away from the gate.
A man.
Thin and beautiful like Mr. Semengelof, but his face is rounder, more
well-fed, sweeter. He moves his head slowly from side to side when he
talks, soothing, reassuring, like someone talking to an animal. Sophia locks
her fingers through his. So familiar, she should not, but the moonlight and
the flowers and the gate and the desert beyond have cast their trance and
she presses her palm against his. His hand feels dry and warm, his skin
thick, almost scaled, with many, many lines in it.
“My name is Cascavel,” he says, and makes a slight bow, little more
than a bend that does not quite reach his waist.
“I do not know you, Mr. Cascavel.”
“Cascavel will do all on its own, Sophia. No misters and missuses
here.”
Sophia suddenly feels nervous, alone. By God, she is so alone. No
house, no husband, no Mrs. Lyon to protect her. If she dies out here no one
will find her, except maybe Mr. Harrier on one of his long morning walks.
They used to wave at each other when their routes crossed.
“I’m not supposed to be out after dark,” she whispers, like a
misbehaving child, and hates herself for the fear in her voice. After all she’s
seen, there should be nothing left that can frighten her. But Cascavel does.
“No, you certainly are not, young lady. And outside the designated
common areas as well! Tsk tsk.”
“Guards will come,” Sophia warns. “If you try to hurt me. They’ll come
if I scream.”
Cascavel smiles a private little smile. “I very much doubt that. But we
can wait for them together, if you like.” He gestures toward the sitting
bench beneath the maples and the apple. Sophia leans toward it like a
sunflower seeking light.
She hesitates.
“Salesmen aren’t allowed past the gates, you know.”
He cocks his head to one side, birdlike. But he does not turn it all the
way around like Semengelof, thankfully. “Why do you think I am a