Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. She could not speak. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. ’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated.
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