A cell had been prepared for me, a veritable cell, windowless, airless, lightless, in the viscera of the palace. The valet lit a lamp for me; a narrow bed, a dark cupboard with fruit and flowers carved on it bulked out of the gloom.

"I shall twist a noose out of my bed linen and hang myself with it," I said.

"Oh, no," said the valet, fixing upon me wide and suddenly melancholy eyes. "Oh, no, you will not. You are a woman of honour."

And what was he doing in my bedroom, this jigging caricature of a man? Was he to be my warder until I submitted to The Beasts whim or he to mine? Am I in such reduced circumstances that I may not have a ladys maid? As if in reply to my unspoken demand, the valet clapped his hands.

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