“No. We shall be wise and bold for the glory of our heritage. Choose—and choose now—which you will have!”
The Abbot chose. The chess game went on. Outside the day folded in, fold on fold of white wool and grey wool, fog coming up from the sea.
CHAPTER VII
The fog wrapped the river. The bridge showed now a few arches and now none. Boats were moths in a moth dimness and silence. Saint Leofric’s mount across the water could not be seen. The walls of the houses on this side stood chill and grey, or faded away into a dream. The garden below barely lived, a wistful, faded place, no colour even to dream of colour.
Morgen Fay hated the day. “Miserable! I want to go live in the sun!”
“Will you have your book? Will you have your tapestry frame?”
“No!”
The large woman, Ailsa, shrugged and went to Tony in the warm kitchen. They talked there. “Now she is nightingale or moon in the sky—and now she is lion-woman or panther-woman—and now she is just a slut that I could whip—!”