“Try your dears.” After a moment’s hesitation, Ophelia turned back to the liftboy. It was the same man who had brought them up to the seventh floor, Aunt Rosaline and her, and yet he was barely recognizable. He was holding his lever in an unlikely position that bent his arm backwards, and his lips were twisted into a strange smile, as if he’d lost all his professionalism. “Excuse me?” “Try your dears,” the liftboy repeated. “I mean, dry your tears. What’s done is done and what must be done will be done.”
