He glanced down at the portrait, then up at her, and when he did so, he looked at her through his lashes, just as Nicholas used to do. “I feel a little—” He yawned again. “You hadn’t. Her blouse was hanging out of her belt, and there a long cut on the sleeve, and it was dotted with blood.
Henry of Portugal was an explorer sans ~gal, for he was goaded onward solely by what he read in books, and from them he deduced all his great perceptions. Maybe her wish had been more of a metaphor than a desire for a man who believed he was from the sixteenth century and wore silver armor, but, still, she had received her wish. “He means to rob me!” Nicholas bellowed. And so he lay, fighting with phantoms and with the shadows of little men, defending himself until the last moment when rocks began smashing down upon his face and he rolled in the dust.
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