There had been a room filled with shelves of books, a million flat leaves of yellowing paper pressed between bindings of cloth or leather, the shelves marked at intervals by labels that followed a code of letters and numbers; a crowded gallery where Case had stared, through Molly’s incurious eyes, at a shattered, dust-stencilled sheet of glass, a thing labelled – her gaze had tracked the brass plaque automatically – ‘La mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires, même.’ She’d reached out and touched this, her artificial nails clicking against the Lexan sandwich protecting the broken glass. There
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