I cannot say, but I found my o ty minutes earlier to attend. It  a problem.  better place to kill time t better o get to knoreatment of books?

    My first impression  struck me by its marked difference from t of ted , sters at tall h solid oak shelves.

    It o floor; at ts alled. Facing tioned to reflect tside, but tonigters. tended from to table. Apart from t ting, and it created soft, ion at ted into darkness.

    Sloer of taking a look to t and left. After my first glances I found myself nodding. It ained library. Categorized, alpized and clean, it  as I es  number of rare and valuable volumes as  only Jane Eyre, uts, te, but tle of Otranto, Lady Audley’s Secret, tre Bride. I o come across a Jekyll and Mr.  my fats existence.

    Marveling at tion of volumes on Miss inter’s so t, one particular set of sood it even from some distance: Instead of displaying tly broripes t ack s decades. ter’s o titles at top of tack and ;cent novels at ttom, eaced in its many different editions and even in different languages. I saeen tales, titled book I  t in its otales of Cion t editions.

    I selected a copy of Miss inter’s most recent book. On page one an elderly nun arrives at a small reets of an unnamed to seems to be in Italy; so a room o be Engliss urned t paragrap as I ime I  meaning to, I began to read in earnest.) t at first appreciate ands: t or  er is life in ed to foresee. Sion and bears it patiently (I turned tten tten Miss inter, forgotten myself) s y of indulged youth…

    And trated t of tion at the neck.

    Someone ching me.

    I kno an uncommon p ime it o me. Like t many solitary people, my senses are acutely attuned to to being to being spied upon. Noc only t, but akable sensation been tickling me? I t back over t minutes, trying to retrace t since to speak to to t moving a muscle,  over ticed notried to remember.

    then I realized.

    I  it even before I picked up the book.

    Needing a moment to recover myself, I turned tinuing tense of reading.

    ‘You can’t fool me.“

    Imperious, declamatory, magisterial.

    to be done but turn and face her.

    Vida inter’s appearance  calculated for concealment. S queen, sorceress or goddess. iff figure rose regally out of a profusion of fat purple and red cusurquoise-and-green clot cloaked  soften ty of  copper o an elaborate confection of ts, curls and coils. ricately lined as a map, ick. In er of rubies, emeralds and ruck an incongruous note.  unnerved me more t er, o develop t; I  from beo my very soul.

    I drerality, hid behind appearance.

    For an instant I t I  transparent,‘t s see straig shan I had.

    ‘Very ly, and o business. Your letter gives me to understand t you ions about the commission I am offering you.“

    “ell, yes, t is—”

    t  registered terruption. “I could suggest increasing tipend and the final fee.”

    I licked my lips, soug er’s dark saking in my flat broraig and navy cardigan. Sying smile and overrode my intention to speak. “But pecuniary interest is clearly not in your nature. .” one en about people  I never expected to meet one.” S t ty concerns integrity. People y.”

    S of my moutaking an aut t I  to exert control over tent of t I ed biograp and are o you.”

    I opened my mouto protest but found noto say. S.

    ‘You see, you don’t knoo say, do you? Are you embarrassed to accuse me of ing to lie to you? People don’t like to accuse eac down.“

    I sat do accuse you of anyt immediately serrupted me.

    ‘Don’t be so polite. If t abide, it’s politeness.“

    cop of trong black arc bore no relation to any natural brow.

    ‘Politeness. Noue if ever t’s so admirable about inoffensiveness, I so knoer all, it’s easily acicular talent to be polite. On trary, being nice is  ion don’t give a damn  t sleep  then he was a genius.“

    lessly on, recalling instance after instance of genius and its bedfelloeel, I t.

    Eventually sure to a close eness is a virtue I neiteem in ot concern ourselves .” And , sopped.

    ‘You raised topic of lying,“ I said. ”t is somet concern ourselves h.“

    ‘In ?“ t see ts of Miss inter’s lass body.

    ‘You een different versions of your life story to journalists in t t’s just there are many more. hundreds, probably.“

    S’s my profession. I’m a storyteller.”

    ‘I am a biograps.“

    Sossed iff curls moved as one. “ you tell’s trutter ory?”

    ‘Not in tories you old the world so far.“

    Miss inter conceded a nod. “Miss Lea,” sing a smoke screen around my past, lose reasons, I assure you, are no longer valid.”

    ‘ reasons?“

    ‘Life is compost.“

    I blinked.

    ‘You t a strange to say, but it’s true. All my life and all my experience, ts t asies, everyt o t ime it ted doo a dark, ric unrecognizable. Ot tion. I t as a compost en I take an idea, plant it in t, and . It feeds on t black stuff t used to be a life, takes its energy for its o germinates. takes root. Produces ss. And so on and so fortil one fine day I ory, or a novel.“

    I nodded, liking the analogy.

    ‘Readers,“ continued Miss inter, ”are fools. t-; is autobiograp is, but not in ter’s life needs time to rot a can be used to nourision. It must be alloo decay. t’s rieving bits and pieces of it, preserving it in to e my books I needed my past left in peace, for time to do its work.“

    I considered  o chings now?”

    ‘I am old. I am ill. Put ts toget do you get? tory, I think.“

    I bit my lip. “And e the book yourself?”

    ‘I  it too late. Besides, en.“

    ‘Do you intend to tell me truth?“ I asked.

    ‘Yes,“ s I ation even t lasted only a fraction of a second.

    ‘And o tell it to me?“

    Sion for t quarter of an  w kind of a person are you, Miss Lea?”

    I fixed my mask in place before replying. “I am a sant. I iquarian bookseur biographers? ”

    ‘It’s not muco go on, is it? If o ogeto knotle more about ime to a person of  yourself.  are your favorite books?  do you dream about? hom do you love?“

    On tant I oo affronted to reply.

    ‘ell, anso ranger living under my roof? A stranger  is not reasonable. tell me ts?“

    Governed by sometronger than reason, I rose from my chair.

    ‘ever are you doing? !“

    I took one step after anotrying not to run, conscious of t rapping out on to me in a voice t contained an edge of panic.

    ‘Come back!“ so tell you a story—a marvelous story!“

    I did not stop.

    ‘Once upon a time ted house—“

    I reache handle.

    ‘Once upon a time there was a library—“

    I opened t to step into its emptiness opped me in my tracks.

    ‘Once upon a time twins—“

    I ed until topped te  rose, trembling, to ted face.

    tentatively I took a step back into t t, turned.

    I unned. t as glass and as real, looked to me  I simply stared back. t you please sit do Vida inter’s.

    Drarol, I moved to down.

    ‘I’m not making any promises,“ I said wearily.

    ‘I’m not in a position to exact any,“ came the answer in a small ice.

    truce.

    “ime she answered.

    ‘Because of your  siblings.“

    ‘And ell me truth?“

    ‘I ell you truth.“

    t I remor t determined t to tell me trut doubt it. So tell. Pered to tell. Only s quite believe t sy  its  as clearly as I did.

    And so I made a suggestion. “I  are a matter of public record. o c you tell me. If I find you old me trut t the commission.”

    ‘Arials before ted to talking fiss Gruff. Miss Lea, if you ions or four I migo lie, but three…“

    I slid my pencil from the cover.

    ‘ is your real name?“

    Se sure t o proceed? I could tell you a g story—a rat migter ting to t of things…”

    I sell me your name.”

    ted in ones glo.

    ‘My name is Vida inter. I  to be able to call myself by t name legally and ly.  you  to knoo t name was—“

    So overcome some obstacle  iceable neutrality, an utter absence of intonation, as t  name was Adeline March.”

    As to cut s even tion tinued ratartly, “I  going to ask my date of birt o ten it.”

    ‘I can manage , if you give me your place of birth.“

    Sated sigell you mucter, if you o tell it my way…”

    ‘t we s on public record.“

    S is a matter of record t Adeline Marc Bartal, London. I can ed to offer any personal guarantee of ty of t detail. tional person, I am not so exceptional t I can remember my oh.”

    I noted it down.

    Noion. I  must be admitted, no particular tion prepared. S  to tell me e of birtory and te of  book, s be less ty-to judge by ered t  tainty didn’t matter; e out for myself any tions, I already ion I needed in order to ascertain t a person by tually existed.  to ask, t o er tell a story, but ion as a .

    ‘tell me,“ I began sloories  everytrously snatcell me somet o you in ts a public record.“ Educational successes, I ing acs. triump are recorded for proud parents and for posterity.

    In t folloer seemed to drao o absent o understand   earlier I o see c ty of knohe surface.

    And then she emerged.

    ‘Do you know why my books are so successful?“

    ‘For a great many reasons, I believe.“

    ‘Possibly. Largely it is because t order. Of course all stories  is  order t matters. t is why people like my books.“

    Sed o ansion. I am going to tell you somet myself, s a public record. It is t important t o me. But I did not expect to find myself telling it to you so soon. I so break one of my rules to do it. I so tell you tory before I tell you the beginning.”

    ‘tory?  be, if it arted ing? “

    ‘Quite simply because my story—my oory—ended before my ing began. Storytelling ime since everything finished.“

    I ed, and sh like a chess player who finds his key piece cornered.

    ‘I  tell you. But I  I? t’s unavoidable. t beg t to make a t er, but to grant it because it is in tory. You asked me to tell you trut t, because of t let me first ask you someturn.“

    ‘?“

    ‘After t in tory. From tomorroell you my story, beginning at tinuing  ts proper place. No eating. No looking aions. No sneaky glances at t page.

    Did s to place conditions on our deal, ed it? Not really. Still, I nodded.

    ‘I agree.“

    S quite look at me as she spoke.

    ‘I lived at Angelfield.“

    rembled over tc ure.

    ‘I een.“

    ilted; fluency deserted her.

    ‘there was a fire.“

    t ones.

    ‘I lost everything.“

    And top it, “Oh, Emmeline!”

    tures in  a name contains all a person’s mystical po a name so God d to t and to very feo pronounce suco invite jeopardy. t seemed, was such a name.

    Miss inter pressed ogetoo late. A tremor ran roughe skin.

    Noied to tory. I umbled upon t tale t I o tell. It  exclamation be but bereavement? In a flase makeup and tic aperies. For a fe seemed to me t I could see rigo Miss inter’s , rigo s. I recognized to, for  not the essence of me?

    e ion, tory tigs, and my excitement  th fear.

    ‘rying not to let my perturbed feelings show in my voice.

    ‘the Banbury herald.“

    I nodded, made a note in my pad and flipped the cover closed.

    ‘Alt kind t I can show you now.“

    I raised an eyebrow.

    ‘Come nearer.“

    I rose from my cook a step, ance between us.

    Sloo me a closed fist t seemed ters precious stones in ttings. In a movement t spoke of great effort, surned , as t concealed and  to offer it tome.

    But t. tself.

    ts ion to t ted by fire, o an entirely unrecognizable landscape, like a scene left permanently altered by t lie open but o a claigissue. In t of esque mark. It  very deep in c  o t s made sense of t of t t, t seemed to ending from it, in tion of t line.

    t it no t at time, in ted and painful act of revealment, it y, and it disturbed me by t and unreadable language.

    A sudden vertigo took hold of me and I reached behind me for my air.

    ‘I’m sorry,“ I s so used to one’s oo other people.“

    I sat do the edge of my vision receded.

    Miss inter closed o  and dreed fist back into ective gesture s.

    ‘I’m sorry you didn’t  to  story, Miss Lea.“

    ‘I’ll  anotime.“

    Our interview was over.

    On my o my quarters I t of tter s me. trained and painstaking  I  it doo illness. Artis perood. From t book and tire career, Miss inter ten erpieces  hand.

    In my study t curtains ermark tin covered te t  c stood under tc t  o start a ne  took from my bag o t t directly underneath.

    On impulse I climbed onto te valance to tain pole. My fingers groped for tops of tains, and I felt for titc attac erlined, and t, flung over my s after a fees, first one tain ood in ter of t of my work.

    ter of it, my g, darkly transparent, aring in at me.  unlike my oline of a desk on ttoned armc cast by a standard lamp. But he.

    togettle ritual of preparing our desks. e divided a ream of paper into smaller piles and flicked to let turning tco t pencil o a fine point,  put it do kept .

    ‘to her. ”Ready for work.“

    So speak to me. I couldn’t  she was saying.

    I ervieed dos of keye up our intervieely aftero jog my memory. And from t first meeting, it  my notebook from time to time, I filled ter of my ss of foolscap er’s  aking dictation from ter in my head.

    I left -ed any mannerisms, expressions and gestures t seemed to add someto her meaning.

    t- blank. Later, rereading, it er my os, comments, questions.

    I felt as to make myself a cup of cocoa, but it ime suspended and did not disturb tion; I returned to my erruption.

    ‘One gets so used to one’s oo ote at last in t I added a note describing t of the damaged one.

    I dre line of script, and stretcretcook ts shem one by one.

    So o  it er of er. Anot greer and faster. In a fe seemed, had decomposed.

    But it  t ed rain.

    I opened t my er over my eyes and face. I sime for bed.

    I left t I could listen to t continued to fall ness. I   accompanied my dreams like a poorly tuned radio left on t, broadcasting a fuzzy cunes.