‘You think I am like that Valade? No, a thousand times. Don’t you know I disinherited the rogue?’ ‘This we knew, milor’,’ said Valade. . It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. She was no longer there. But her request was unheeded. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. E.
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