‘They’ll look at us, you know,’ says Cora flatly. ‘We’re going to be looked at at the Breakfast.’
‘Because we’re of the original blood,’ says Clarice. ‘That’s why.’
‘And that’s why we’re important, too.’
‘Two what?’
‘To everyone, of course.’
‘Well, we’re not yet, not to everyone.’
‘But we will be soon.’
‘When the clever boy makes us. He can do anything.’
‘Anything. Anything at all. He told me so.’
‘Me, too. Don’t think he only tells you, because he doesn’t.’
‘I didn’t say he did, did I?’
‘You were going to.’
‘Two what?’
‘To exalt yourself.’
‘Oh, yes, yes. We will be exalted when the time is ripe.’
‘Ripe and rich.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Of course.’
There is another silence. Their voices have been so flat and expressionless that when they cease talking the silence seems no new thing in the room, but rather a continuation of flatness in another colour.
‘Turn your head now, Cora. When I’m looked at at the Breakfast I want to know how they see me from the side and what exactly they are looking at; so turn your head for me and I will for you afterwards.’
Cora twists her white neck to the left.
‘More,’ says Clarice.
‘More what?’
‘I can still see your other eye.’
Cora twists her head a fraction more, dislodging some of the powder from her neck.
‘That’s right, Cora. Stay like that. Just like that. Oh, Cora!’ (the voice is still as flat), ‘I am
She claps her hands mirthlessly, and even her palms meet with a dead sound.
Almost as though this noise were a summons the door opens and Steerpike moves rapidly across the room. There is a fresh piece of plaster across his cheek. The twins rise and edge towards him, their shoulders touching as they advance.
He runs his eyes over them, takes his pipe out of his pocket and strikes a light. For a moment he holds the flame in his hand, but only for a moment, for Cora has raised her arm with the slow gesture of a somnabulist and has let it fall upon the flame, extinguishing it.
‘What in plague’s name are you up to?’ shouts Steerpike, for once losing his control. Seeing an Earl as an owl on a mantelpiece, and having part of one’s face removed by a cat, both on the same morning, can temporarily undermine the self-control of any man.
‘No fire,’ says Cora. ‘We don’t have fires any more.’
‘We don’t like them any more. No. Not any more.’
‘Not after we –’
Steerpike breaks in, for he knows how their minds have turned, and this is no moment just before the Breakfast for them to start reminiscing. ‘You are awaited! Breakfast table is agog for you. They all want to know where you are. Come along, my lovely brace of ladies. Let me escort you some of the way, at least. You are looking most alluring – but what can have been keeping you? Are you ready?’
The twins nod their heads.
‘May I be so honoured as to give you my right arm, Lady Cora? And, Lady Clarice, my dear, if you will take my left …?’
Steerpike, bending his elbows, waits for the Aunts to split apart to take his either arm.
‘The right’s more important than the left,’ says Clarice. ‘Why should you have it?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because I’m as good as you.’
‘But not as clever, are you, dear?’
‘Yes, I am, only you’re favoured.’
‘That’s because I’m alluring, like he says I am.’
