When Storm found his way to the foyer, he heard water rushing upstairs, a toilet flushing. He went up the steps quickly, two at a time.
He came into a long, lightless corridor with portraits staring down at him from the walls. A grandfather clock was ticking somewhere near him. And he thought, Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tick-tick, tick-tick.
Then, at the hall’s far end, a door opened; a rectangle of yellow light. Sophia stood in it, bent, weary, braced against the frame.
Storm hurried down the corridor to her. She released the jamb and came forward, nearly fell forward into his arms.
“I’ve been sick,” she said miserably.
“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re gonna be fine. Is there somewhere you can lie down in this dump?”
She gestured at a door, and he helped her to it. They came through into a small bedroom, her bedroom. He didn’t turn the light on. The windows were small and blurred with rain, the sky black outside. The room was full of shadows, and the shapes in it were obscure. Storm saw the canopied bed against one wall. He helped Sophia to it, helped her lie down. She rolled onto her side, facing away from him.
Storm sat beside her, on the edge of the duvet. He massaged her shoulder gently. After a while, he looked around the bedpost at the painting on the opposite wall. He could see it was the portrait of a woman. He could not make out her features in the shadows, but he felt her watching him. He went on massaging Sophia’s shoulder.
“I don’t know what just happened down there,” she murmured.
Storm shrugged. “You blew a gasket, kid. It happens.”
“Maybe in your family.”
He laughed. “Hey, in my family, this was a good day. This was, like, the school picnic or something.”
Sophia flumped over onto her back and laughed and started crying. “You’re nice to me,” she said through her tears.
He nodded. “You mean I’m nice to you and you’re so horrible.”
“Yes.”
“What can I say? I’m a lousy judge of character.”
She turned to press her face into his hip. He felt her begin to shiver under his hand. What a crazy dame, he thought. She really would’ve rather hanged herself again than let loose at the old buzzard like that. What a crazy country.
He reached across her, across the bed. Worked the duvet up out of its place and folded it over her, bundled her in it.
“What are you doing?” she said, her voice muffled. “You’ll mess it up.”
“Somehow, over time, I’ll just have to learn to live with that.”
She laughed again, and started to cry harder.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.”
“But what’s going to happen now?” she said.
He shifted to lift her head onto his thigh. He kissed her hair and stroked it. She shivered in his arms a long time, and the room slowly grew darker.
Finally, she began to be quiet. And after another while, as he held her, he heard her breathing grow deep and even.
He leaned down to press a kiss into her hair. He closed his eyes. He wondered if Sir Michael was heading upstairs with a gun.
And what, he wondered, is going to happen now?