Chapel Noir (Irene Adler #5) by Carole Douglas

Prelude Little gleams of light . . . seem to come from tiny hut windows in the forest. “Driver, can’t we stop a minute at one of those huts, where the lights are?” “Lights! They’re wolves.” —K. MARSDEN FROM A YELLOW BOOK He is hungry tonight. He came home, such as it is, exhausted, confused, clad in a rough shirt other than he had worn on leaving. I insisted he wash his hands. (This is one habit he resists). The wash water swirled with a pink, pulpy substance he could not explain. He is a wanderer, as am I. Homeless and free, like a wolf in the woods, a hawk in the air. Sometimes I think he is a god and I am a devil. Sometimes he is a devil and I am a god. Which will win, good or evil? Who will win, God or Devil? I love this awkward language that yet plays a bit of unholy fun: subtract an “o” from “good” and you have a god. Subtract a “d” from “good,” add it to “evil,” and you have a devil. Another game of words: an Englishman, surely one of God’s most contradictory creations (or the devil’s) would like this. Go
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