‘I don’t know that I want to now,’ said Clarice. ‘I think I’ll keep it to myself, although it’s obvious.’ Clarice gave great emphasis to this word ‘obvious’. ‘Isn’t it tea time yet? Shall I ring the bell, Cora? What a pity it’s too windy for the tree.’

‘You were thinking of that Steerpike boy,’ said Cora, who had sidled up to her sister and was staring at her from very close quarters. She felt she had rather turned the tables on poor Clarice by her sudden renewal of the subject.

‘So were you,’ said Clarice. ‘I knew that long ago. Didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Cora. ‘Very long ago. Now we both know.’

A freshly burning fire flung their shadows disrespectfully to and fro across the ceiling and over the walls where samples of their embroidery were hung. The room was a fair size, some thirty feet by twenty. Opposite the entrance from the corridor was a small door. This gave upon the Room of Roots, in the shape of a half circle. On either side of this smaller opening were two large windows with diamond panes of thick glass, and on the two end walls of the room, in one of which was the small fireplace, were narrow doorways, one leading to the kitchen and the rooms of the two servants, and the other to the dining-room and the dark yellow bedroom of the twins.

‘He said he would exalt us,’ said Clarice. ‘You heard him, didn’t you?’

‘I’m not deaf,’ said Cora.

‘He said we weren’t being honoured enough and we must remember who we are. We’re Lady Clarice and Cora Groan; that’s who we are.’

‘Cora and Clarice’, her sister corrected her, ‘of Gormenghast.’

‘But no one is awed when they see us. He said he’d make them be.’

‘Make them be what, dear?’ Cora had begun to unbend now that she found their thoughts had been identical.

‘Make them be awed,’ said Clarice. ‘That’s what they ought to be. Oughtn’t they, Cora?’

‘Yes; but they won’t do it,’

‘No. That’s what it is,’ said Clarice, ‘although I tried this morning.’

‘What, dear?’ said Cora.

‘I tried this morning, though,’ repeated Clarice.

‘Tried what?’ asked Cora in a rather patronizing voice.

‘You know when I said “I’ll go for a saunter”?’

‘Yes.’ Cora sat down and produced a minute but heavily scented handkerchief from her flat bosom. ‘What about it?’

‘I didn’t go to the bathroom at all.’ Clarice sat down suddenly and stiffly, ‘I took some ink instead – black ink.’

‘What for?’