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valuable volumes as well as more ordinary； well…thumbed copies。 not only jane eyre； wuthering heights； the woman in white； but the castle of otranto； lady audley’s secret； the spectre bride。 i was thrilled to e across a jekyll and mr。 hyde so rare that my father had given up believing in its existence。
marveling at the rich selection of volumes on miss winter’s shelves； i browsed my way toward the fireplace at the far end of the room。 in the final bay on the right； one particular set of shelves stood it even from some distance： instead of displaying the mellow； preeminently brown stripes that were the spines of the older books； this stack showed the silvery blues； sage greens and pink…beiges of more ：cent decades。 they were the only modern books in the room。 miss winter’s own works。 with her earliest titles at the top of the stack and ；cent novels at the bottom； each work was represented in its many different editions and even in different languages。 i saw no thirteen tales； the mistitled book i had read at the bookshop； but in its other guise as tales of change and desperation there were more than a dozen different editions。
i selected a copy of miss winter’s most recent book。 on page one an elderly nun arrives at a small house in the backstreets of an unnamed town that seems to be in italy； she is shown into a room where a pompous young man； whom we take to be english or american； greets her in some surprise。 （i turned the page。 the first paragraphs had drawn me in； just as i had been drawn in every time i had opened one of her books； and without meaning to； i began to read in earnest。） the young man does not at first appreciate what the reader already understands： that his visitor has e on a grave mission； one that will alter is life in ways he cannot be expected to foresee。 she begins her explanation and bears it patiently （i turned the page； i had forgotten the library； forgotten miss winter； forgotten myself） when he treats her with the levity of indulged youth…
and then something penetrated through my reading and drew me out of the book。 a prickling sensation at the back of the neck。
someone was watching me。
i know the back…of…the…neck experience is not an unmon phenomenon； it was； however； the first time it had happened to me。 like those of a great many solitary people； my senses are acutely attuned to the presence of others； and i am more used to being the invisible spy in a room than to being spied upon。 now someone was watching me； and not only that； but whoever it was had been watching me for some time。 how long had that unmistakable sensation been tickling me？ i thought back over the past minutes； trying to retrace the memory of the body behind my memory of the book。 was it since the nun began to speak to the young man？ since she was shown into the house？ or earlier？ without moving a muscle； head bent over the page as though i had noticed nothing； i tried to remember。
then i realized。
i had felt it even before i picked up the book。
needing a moment to recover myself； i turned the page； continuing the pretense of reading。
‘you can’t fool me。“
imperious； declamatory； magisterial。
there was nothing to be done but turn and face her。
vida winter’s appearance was not calculated for concealment。 she was an ancient queen； sorceress or goddess。 her stiff figure rose regally out of a profusion of fat purple and red cushions。 draped around her shoulders； the folds of the turquoise…and…green cloth that cloaked her body did not soften the rigidity of her frame。 her bright copper hair had been arranged into an elaborate confection of twists； curls and coils。 her face； as intricately lined as a map； was powdered white and finished with bold scarlet lipstick。 in her lap； her hands were a cluster of rubies； emeralds and white； bony knuckles； only her nails； unvarnished； cut short； square like my own； struck an incongruous note。 what unnerved me more than all the rest were her sunglasses。 i lid not see her eyes but； as i remembered the inhuman green irises in the poster； her dark lenses seemed to develop the force of a search…it； i had the impression that from behind them she was looking through my skin and into my very soul。
i drew a veil over myself； masked myself in neutrality； hid behind appearance。
for an instant i think she was surprised that i was not transparent；‘t she could not see straight through me； but she recovered quickly； re quickly than i had。
‘very well；“ she said tartly； and her smile was for herself more than me。 ”to business。 your letter gives me to understand that you have reservations about the mission i am offering you。“
“well； yes； that is—”
the voice ran on as if it had not registered the interruption。 “i could suggest increasing the monthly stipend and the final fee。”
i licked my lips； sought the right words。 before i could speak； miss winter’s dark shades had bobbed up and down； taking in my flat brown bags； my straight skirt and navy cardigan。 she smiled a small； pitying smile and overrode my intention to speak。 “but pecuniary interest is clearly not in your nature。 how quaint。” her tone was dry。 “i have forgotten about people who don’t care for money； but i never expected to meet one。” she leaned back against the cushions。 “therefore i conclude that the difficulty concerns integrity。 people whose lives are not balanced by a healthy love of money suffer from an appalling obsession with personal integrity。”
she waved a hand； dismissing my words before they were out of my mouth。 “you are afraid of undertaking an authorized biography in case your independence is promised。 you suspect that i want to exert control over the content of the finished book。 you know that i have resisted biographers in the past and are wondering what my agenda is in changing my mind now。 above all”—that dark gaze of her sunglasses again—“you are afraid i mean to lie to you。”
i opened my mouth to protest but found nothing to say。 she was right。
‘you see； you don’t know what to say； do you？ are you embarrassed to accuse me of wanting to lie to you？ people don’t like to accuse each other of lying。 and for heaven’s sake； sit down。“
i sat down。 “i don’t accuse you of anything；” i began mildly； but immediately she interrupted me。
‘don’t be so polite。 if there’s one thing i can’t abide； it’s politeness。“
her forehead twitched； and an eyebrow rose over the top of the sunglasses。 a strong black arch that bore no relation to any natural brow。
‘politeness。 now； there’s a poor man’s virtue if ever there was one。 what’s so admirable about inoffensiveness； i should like to know。 after all； it’s easily achieved。 one needs no particular talent to be polite。 on the contrary； being nice is what’s left when you’ve failed at everything else。 people with ambition don’t give a damn what other people think about them。 i hardly suppose wagner lost sleep worrying whether he’d hurt someone’s feelings。 but then he was a genius。“
her voice flowed relentlessly on； recalling instance after instance of genius and its bedfellow selfishness； and the folds of her shawl never moved as she spoke。 she must be made of steel； i thought。