Then he remembered that the study windows were open. He must close them. Quickly.
It might rain in.
When Norman entered the living room his face was composed. Tansy was sitting in the straight chair, leaning a little forward, an intent moody expression around her eyes. Her hands were playing absently with a bit of twine.
He carefully lit a cigarette.
"Do you want that drink now?" he asked, not too casually, not too sharply.
"No, thanks. You have one." Her hands kept on knotting and unknotting the twine.
He sat down and picked up his book. From the easy-chair he could watch her unobtrusively.
And now that he had no grave to dig or other mechanical task to perform, his thoughts were not to be denied. But at least he could keep them circling in a little isolated sphere inside his skull, without affecting either the expression of his face or the direction of his other thoughts, which were protectively focused on Tansy.
"Sorcery is," went the thoughts inside the sphere. "Something has been conjured down from a roof. Women are witches fighting for their men. Tansy was a witch. She was guarding you. But you made her stop."
"In that case," he replied swiftly to the thoughts inside the sphere, "why isn't Tansy aware of what's happening? It can't be denied that she has acted very relieved and happy."