De Flunkl shrugs, but when he begins to speak his voice grows clearer, as though he has been waiting some time to say what he says. ‘I am young, ambitious and rich. The sickness is a gift to one as adroit as me, but still the clutching blindness of my peers does have its effects on the purity of my schemes. Even my servants are jealous of my spirit. But I must persevere now. Jesus was also sinned against, I always remember that. It is now I shall make my move upon the staggering world and the name of Sir Osprey de Flunkl will ring down throughout the ages. It shall flourish in posterity, and last longer than any honey would in the deepest bog. My line, and I, its founder, will be forever esteemed for my good management of stocks and my fairness and firmness with my requisite peasants and animals. But still I am unsure of myself because my victory can only be hallowed out at a later date, a posthumous one, and I must have faith in the trickling whoredom of destiny. But that is later. Now, I feel like the world is against me. I do feel it inside me; and what I fear most is posterity’s silence, its possible disregard for my greatness. I feel, like an absence in my gut, the coming onslaught of the millennia forgetting me sometimes, and I would not have it. I am afraid of time emptying itself of me, becoming blank once more.’

‘Liar,’ Harold says, still looking at the shrouds in the corner. ‘The world is only against unnaturalness, and you feel your sin to put you in another category above the common people, using the conflict you yourself have nurtured as proof of your superiority. It is what gives you pride, but it is imaginary. It is very easy to inherit wealth and sign deeds. If you are remembered, little boy, it will only be as one who merely took the trouble to be born.’

‘You see what I must contend with?’ de Flunkl says, appealing to Ambrosio, who only giggles.