And a second afterward he stood in the doorway. She knew that he was eying the desk, eying her back as she stooped to hurry her work.
"What are you doing?"
Aliette neither looked up nor answered. Her thoughts were all for the flames--for the blessed consuming flames.
"What are you burning?"
He sprang across the room at her; and the shovel dropped with a clatter from her nerveless fingers.
Turning, she faced him. He put out an arm as though to fend her from the fire. She seized his arm with both hands, crying, "You're not to. You're not to."
He struggled with her; but she fought him, fought him away from the fire. Behind her, in the flames, the last shred of parchment charred to stiff black ashes.
"Alie"--the loved face was a blur before her eyes, the loved voice a far-away whisper in her ear--"Alie--what have you done? You haven't burnt it? You haven't burnt my mother's book?"
"No. Not the book. Sir Peter says we can alter the book. But we can't alter the will. I had to burn the will, because--because of Dennis."
"Dennis?"