“What do you want?”
“I—I must speak with Rodvard Bergelin.”
“This is a respectable house. Speak with him in the morning.”
“It is—a matter of life and death—Oh, dear God!” as the wicket began to close. “Here.” She reached in her purse and recklessly thrust at the face one of the three silver spadas that were all the money she had in the world (What will mother do tomorrow morning?). The face expressed a sour satisfaction; an inarticulate grumble came out of it, which she interpreted as a command to wait where she was. (The musicians’ booth had been where the shadow of a turret split the corner in particular shapes.)
A sound of footsteps approached the door from within and it opened upon Rodvard yawning, hair awry, hose wrinkled at the knees, jacket flung around unlaced.
“Lalette! What is it? Come in.”
The moustached face hung itself in the background. “She cannot come in this house at night.”
“The parlor—”
“I say she cannot come in so late. This is a respectable house. Go down to Losleib Street.”
Face closed the door; Rodvard, all anxious, came down the single step, pulling his jacket together (with the fine brown hair curling on his chest in the form of a many-pointed star). “What is it?”