All right then. Go on.

Disguised in the murdered girl’s clothing, the assassin is to wait until morning and then allow himself to be led up the steps to the altar, where, at the moment of sacrifice, he will stab the King. The King will thus appear to have been struck down by the Goddess herself, and his death will be the signal for a carefully orchestrated uprising.

Certain of the rougher elements, having been bribed, will stage a riot. After this, events will follow the time-honoured pattern. The Temple priestesses will be taken into custody, for their own safety it will be said, but in reality to force them to uphold the plotters’ claim to spiritual authority. The nobles loyal to the King will be speared where they stand; their male offspring will also be killed, to avoid revenge later; their daughters will be married off to the victors to legitimize the seizure of their families’ wealth, and their pampered and no doubt adulterous wives will be tossed to the mob. Once the mighty have fallen, it’s a distinct pleasure to be able to wipe your feet on them.

The blind assassin plans to escape in the ensuing confusion, returning later to claim the other half of his generous fee. In reality the plotters intend to cut him down at once, as it would never do if he were caught, and—in the event of the plot’s failure—forced to talk. His corpse will be well hidden, because everyone knows that the blind assassins work only for hire, and sooner or later people might begin to ask who had hired him. Arranging a king’s death is one thing, but being found out is quite another.

The girl who is thus far nameless lies on her bed of red brocade, awaiting the ersatz Lord of the Underworld and saying a wordless farewell to this life. The blind assassin creeps down the corridor, dressed in the grey robes of a Temple servant. He reaches the door. The sentry is a woman, since no men are allowed to serve inside the compound. Through his grey veil the assassin whispers to her that he carries a message from the High Priestess, for her ear alone. The woman leans down, the knife moves once, the lightning of the Gods is merciful. His sightless hands dart towards the jangle of keys.

The key turns in the lock. Inside the room, the girl hears it. She sits up.

His voice stops. He’s listening to something outside in the street.

She raises herself on an elbow. What is it? she says. It’s just a car door.

Do me a favour, he says. Put on your slip like a good girl and take a peek out the window.

What if someone sees me? she says. It’s broad daylight.

It’s all right. They won’t know you. They’ll just see a woman in a slip, it’s not an uncommon sight around here; they’ll just think you’re a…

A woman of easy virtue? she says lightly. Is that what you think too?

A ruined maiden. Not the same thing.

That’s very gallant of you.

Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy.

If it weren’t for you I’d be a whole lot more ruined, she says. She’s at the window now, she raises the blind. Her slip is the chill green of shore ice, broken ice. He won’t be able to hold on to her, not for long. She’ll melt, she’ll drift away, she’ll slide out of his hands.

Anything out there? he says.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Come back to bed.

But she’s looked in the mirror over the sink, she’s seen herself. Her nude face, her rummaged hair. She checks her gold watch. God, what a wreck, she says. I’ve got to go.

A different house this week, a different room. At least there’s space to turn around between door and bed. The curtains are Mexican, striped in yellow and blue and red; the bed has a bird’s-eye maple headboard; there’s a Hudson’s Bay blanket, crimson and scratchy, that’s been tossed onto the floor. A Spanish bullfight poster on the wall. An armchair, maroon leather; a desk, fumed oak; a jar with pencils, all neatly sharpened; a rack of pipes. Tobacco particulate thickens the air.

A shelf of books: Auden, Veblen, Spengler, Steinbeck, Dos Passos. Tropic of Cancer, out in plain view, it must have been smuggled. Salammbô, Strange Fugitive, Twilight of the Idols, A Farewell to Arms. Barbusse, Montherlant. Hammurabis Gesetz: Juristische Erlaüterung. This new friend has intellectual interests, she thinks. Also more money. Therefore less trustworthy. He has three different hats topping his bentwood coat stand, as well as a plaid dressing gown, pure cashmere.

Have you read any of these books? she’d asked, after they’d come in and he’d locked the door. While she was taking off her hat and gloves.

Some, he said. He didn’t elaborate. Turn your head. He untangled a leaf from her hair.

Already they’re falling.

She wonders if the friend knows. Not just that there’s a woman—they’ll have something worked out between them so the friend won’t barge in, men do that—but who she is. Her name and so on. She hopes not. She can tell by the books, and especially by the bullfight poster, that this friend would be hostile to her on principle.

Today he’d been less impetuous, more pensive. He’d wanted to linger, to hold back. To scrutinize.

Why are you looking at me like that?

I’m memorizing you.

Why? she said, putting her hand over his eyes. She didn’t like being examined like that. Fingered.

To have you later, he said. Once I’ve gone.

Don’t. Don’t spoil today.

Make hay while the sun shines, he said. That your motto?

More like waste not, want not, she said. He’d laughed then.

Now she’s wound herself in the sheet, tucked it across her breasts; she lies against him, legs hidden in a long sinuous fishtail of white cotton. He has his hands behind his head; he’s gazing up at the ceiling. She feeds him sips of her drink, rye and water this time. Cheaper than scotch. She’s been meaning to bring something decent of her own—something drinkable—but so far she’s forgotten.