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do you girls know? You are slaves to so much. And we girls have never had much say in the way of things.’ The old woman smiled, but this time with her eyes too.
    Catherine was compelled to return the smile, though her body felt ready to shatter like the porcelains at an end of the mantel that two stoats in convict uniforms were entwined about.
    ‘Please.’ Edith Mason wafted one bony hand in the air. So pallid were the fingers before the black silk of the woman’s high-necked dress, Catherine’s eyes followed the
hand’s trajectory as if mesmerized. And she was glad to see the hand was, in fact, gloved. ‘Take a look. I know you must be dying to mooch among our things. I bet you can’t wait
to get your hands on them. To put prices on them.’
    ‘There’s no hurry.’
    ‘Don’t be coy with me. I have no patience with all that. So let’s be clear about one thing: we did not invite just anyone here to dismember our estate. Things that no soul in
this world has the skill to craft now. Let alone appreciate their true value and meaning. We want someone who will understand what was once created here. We may have dealt with your firm in a
satisfactory manner before, but only when we have found a person with the necessary insight and sensitivity will we allow an auction. So consider this an interview.’ The word
‘auction’ seemed to cause the old woman great pain and she grimaced. If Catherine were not mistaken, her eyes also shone with tears before she looked away to the windows.
    ‘Your home . . .’ Catherine didn’t know what to say, but felt she had to say something. ‘Is incredible.’
    The woman’s expression changed swiftly and Catherine struggled not to recoil in distaste. Edith Mason’s smile had broadened to reveal more of her teeth and what gums were left to
hold them in place. ‘If only you knew how unique. But perhaps you will come to.’ The smile turned into a glare. ‘If we decide to employ your firm.’
    ‘We’re so excited about this opportunity. To be invited here and to—’
    ‘Yes, yes. All right, dear. I was starting to like you. From the moment I saw you in that lane I knew you had humility. That it was genuine. And we like good manners here, Miss Howard. We
like silence. We like to be left alone with our endeavours . . . But we don’t like . . .’ Her train of thought drifted and she stared out across the room again, as if listening to an
earpiece. A trickle of soot struck the grate inside the fireplace. They both flinched.
    Edith looked to that side of her chair, warily, then returned her terrible stare to Catherine. ‘What do you know of my uncle?’
    Catherine glanced at the floor to evade a scrutiny she found awful, and saw hand-woven carpets with oriental rugs arranged over them. She tried to organize her thoughts that reared and fell over
themselves. The medieval geometric design of burgundy and green in the carpet weave bombarded her mind. Small lifelike eyes watched her from every angle, gleeful at her awkwardness. Only the dog
appeared to feel sorry for her.
    She doubted she would be given much space here to talk in, and that nothing she said would be of interest to the elderly woman. If she did speak, she assumed what she said would only serve as
ammunition, that she would be rebuffed and contradicted. An attitude she’d never become accustomed to, even after a lifetime of practice.
    She forced herself to concentrate. ‘We know . . .’
    ‘Not we,
you
.’
    ‘I . . . I am, of course, aware of his skill. As a taxidermist.’ She thought of the catalogue copy she’d mentally drafted the previous week. ‘From what little of his work
has ever been shown, perhaps he was the greatest of them all. And my colleague tells me your uncle was also a legendary puppeteer—’
    Edith was not to be flattered.
‘They
are not for sale. They were like children to him and they are not for strangers.’
    ‘Of course. But just in this room, from what I can see, we’d