THE LOOK on Theodora’s face told me that this was the explanation she had been waiting for. I could see no connection between seventeen, three, and a dead sea bird, but she clearly understood this message. She sat where I had pushed her, sprawled on the hall floor, supporting herself with arms thrown behind her, her skirts in disarray. Her eyes were wide, her face stark white, her mouth open as though she could not quite manage to catch her breath.
I struggled up and tried to help her to her feet, but she pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head.
‘Ow, Gawd,’ she moaned, her vowels suddenly descending to the vernacular of the Wrong Boys. ‘Ow, Christ.’
I drew back in surprise at the change just as Edwin appeared and dashed to his wife.
‘Is anyone h
