The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. Michelle was in sight, Lucy could hear her voice, high in the crowd, and saw her blond head bobbing among a sea of faces. “Annabel,” she said slowly, “if I fight this thing out myself, can I trust you that it will not be a vain sacrifice? After what you have said it is useless for us to play with words.
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