To dance alone where no one knew, that was the single thing I hid to myself when I was known as Miss Kew, that Victorian, older than her years, later than her time; correct and starched, lace and linen and lonely. Now indeed I would be all they said, through and through, forever and ever, because he had robbed me of the one thing I dared to keep secret.
He came out into the sun and walked to me, holding his great head a little on one side. I stood where I was, frozen inwardly and outwardly and altogether by the core of anger and the layer of fear. My arm was still out, my waist still bent from my dance, and when he stopped, I breathed again because by then I had to.
He said, ‘You read books?’
I couldn’t bear to have him near me, but I couldn’t move. He put out his hard hand and touched my jaw, turned my head up until I had to look into his face. I cringed away from him, but my face would not leave his hand, though he was not holding it, just lifting it. ‘You got to read some books for me. I got no time to find them.’
I asked him, ‘Who are you?’
‘Lone,’ he said. ‘You going to read books for me?’
‘No. Let me go, let me go!’ He wasn’t holding me.
‘What books?’ I cried.
He thumped my face, not very hard. It made me look up a bit more. He dropped his hand away. His eyes, the irises were going to spin…
‘Open up in there,’ he said. ‘Open way up and let me see.’