She looked down at what she was suddenly wearing.
“That’s not my dress. It’s got all glitter on it.”
Death sighed. The great lovers of history had never encountered Miss Flitworth. Casanunder would have handed in his stepladder.
THEY’RE DIAMONDS. A KING’S RANSOM IN DIAMON
DS.
“Which king?”
ANY KING.
“Coo.”
Binky walked easily along the road to the town. After the length of infinity, a mere dusty road was a bit of a relief.
Sitting sidesaddle behind Death, Miss Flitworth explored the rustling contents of the box of Dark Enchantments.
“Here,” she said, “someone’s had all the rum truffles.” There was another crackle of paper. “And from the bottom layer, too, I hate that, people starting the bottom layer before the top one’s been properly finished. And I can tell you’ve been doing it because there’s a little map in the lid and by rights there should be rum truffles, Bill Door?”
I’M SORRY, MISS FLITWORTH.
“This big diamond’s a bit heavy. Nice, though,” she added, grudgingly. “Where’d you get it?”
FROM PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT IT WAS THE TEAR OF A GOD.
“And is it?”
NO. GODS NEVER WEEP. IT IS COMMON CARBON THAT HAS BEEN SUBJECT TO GREAT HEAT AND PRESSURE, THAT IS ALL.
“Inside every lump of coal there’s a diamond waiting to get out, right?”
YES, MISS FLITWORTH.
There was no sound for a while, except the clip-clop of Binky’s hoofs. Then Miss Flitworth said, archly:
“I do know what’s going on, you know. I saw how much sand there was. And so you thought ‘She’s not a bad old stick, I’ll show her a good time for a few hours, and then when she’s not expecting it, it’ll be time for the old cut-de-grass’, am I right?”
Death said nothing.
“I am right, aren’t I?”
I CAN’T HIDE ANYTHING FROM YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Huh, I suppose I should be flattered. Yes? I expect you’ve got a lot of calls on your time.”
MORE THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE, MISS FLITWORTH.
“In the circumstances, then, you might as well go back to calling me Renata again.”
There was a bonfire in the meadow beyond the archery field. Death could see figures moving in front of it. An occasional tortured squeak suggested that someone was tuning up a fiddle.
“I always come along to the harvest dance,” said Miss Flitworth, conversationally. “Not to dance, of course. I generally look after the food and so on.”
WHY?
“Well, someone’s got to look after the food.”