She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. A sudden knock at the door startled her. He tired of his popcorn and placed it under his seat. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. To win the contest meant you would be chosen to apprentice in magic as a priest under her tutelage.
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