He sat with a book on his lap, but never turned a page. In the kitchen Rita sat beside the range. The Aga was a comfort on a windy night like this. She thought of people who had no home, like the Old Woman of the Roads in the poem.
They had a framed print from the Cuala Press of the poem by Padriac Colum up on the wall. It was a great thing to have a bit of comfort. She wondered about the tinker woman travelling on and on in those damp caravans, about Sister Madeleine who didn't know where the next crust was going to come from, but it never worried her.
Someone would bring her wood for the fire, or potatoes to cook. And Rita thought about the Mistress. What would have her, a fine young woman with a family that adored her, wandering about down by the lake on a cold windy night like this, instead of sitting by the fire in her own room with the thick velvet curtains drawn.
"People are funny, Farouk." Rita said to the cat. Farouk leaped up on the windowsill and looked out over the back yards of Lough Glass, as if he, too, might have been out wandering, had he the mind.
Emmet was in bed, Father was straining, listening for the sound of the door.
Kit felt the tick tock of the clock going trough her, almost shaking her body. Why did they have a clock with such a loud sound, or maybe it had just got louder. Kit hadn't remembered it like this before, dominating the whole house.
Wouldn't it have been wonderful if Mother was there teaching her some game. Mother said you could learn any game from a book. There was no such thing as having a head for that sort of thing or having a good card sense, you did it for yourself.
Soon they would hear the door opening and Mother's light step running up the stair. Father would never ask her what kept her out so late ... even though this was surely later than she had ever been out before.
Perhap he should ask her, Kit thought with a surge of impatience. It wasn't normal; it wasn't what Clio would call normal.