James smiled tightly. “You must know from Sinclair that I don’t remember that life.” “Then perhaps you have questions about your master.” The silence that followed the word master seemed to burn, a scorching heat that shriveled what it touched. “My master,” said James, tasting the words. “You can tell so much from what he left behind. You, for example.” “Me,” said James. “His prize possession. It is fascinating to see his tastes in the flesh. May I?” He put his glasses on, and gestured toward James’s face. James is not a possession, Will wanted to say. He had to force himself to sit still, to
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