She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. It’s not like we’re getting married. Her confession was still unmade. ‘Let us go elsewhere and discuss the matter. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. She remembered the doctor's warning that the real battle would begin when the patient recovered consciousness. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you.
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