"No, someone killed his friend, who was waiting for him, down there in
the street. Everything is ruined. Simon will not want to see me again.
He will be certain to blame me for that young man's death."
"Why should he?" David walked over to the chest, where the enameled
candlesticks on either side of the painting of the saint still held
burnt-out stumps of candles. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front
of the chest. He rested his forearms on his knees and his gaze on the
flame and azure carpet. There were deep lines in his face. He looked as
if he had not slept all last night.
His face in front of the saint's face. Looking from one to the other,
Sophia saw the resemblance more plainly than ever.
She sighed and spoke with elaborate patience. "What else can Simon think
but that his friend was killed by some overzealous protector of mine?"
"Why would a protector kill a man standing in the street when there is
another man up in the bedroom with the woman he is supposed to protect?"
There was something in the harshness of his gaze, a flatness in his
steel-colored eyes, that told her beyond the possibility of doubt that
it was he who had killed Simon's young companion.
But had he not been at Tilia's house all night?