The Quiet CrowsJuliet has taken ill.
It is not a severe condition. She seems a little pale, and she feels a little weak. She looks small in one corner of the expanse of the sofa, and smaller still against the pillows and piles of blankets. We have tried to make her comfortable. Marco looks worried.
I was reading to Juliet earlier, but she has closed her eyes, and I have stopped. Jacobo is with us in the room, bent over one of the side tables and working on some tiny mechanism with delicate tools, squinting with the tight, bright pool of light thrown down by one of the reading lamps. He is singing a little song:
snip, nip, the wick trimmers come
He is singing it to himself. I do not recognize it.
Yesterday I had been reading to Juliet, too. I was tired, and do not remember falling asleep. I was brought back a little of the way to waking by Mr. Shen, who waved to me as he shuffled past us from the kitchen. A minute later he had done it again. I think I may have dreamed it.
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