There was a small looking glass on top of the chest of drawers. She looked into it and then brushed her hair back from her forehead. She wished now that she had not cut it so short.
Her long hair had reached her waist and been much admired. She was dark, as her mother had been, and yet there was some hint of her father’s red head in that there were fiery lights beneath the sombre darkness. One was not always aware of them and then a sudden turn of the head, a glint of sunshine or a flicker of the flames from the fire and they were very apparent.
From her drawer Ventura selected a ribbon. She tied the short ends of her hair back with a bow at the nape of her neck.
Now she was ready.
She looked round at her belongings, the straw paillasse she had slept on for the past six months and the
