Geraint watches Hermes push lemon slices around a silver serving tray
with an olive fork. From an anteroom, the whoops and screams of their
contemporaries can be heard through the closed doors as they rub citrus
fruits into their eyes. A servant tips more sliced fruit over their
writhing naked bodies into a paddling pool which has been placed there
for the occasion. Geraint sighs, knowing he will not be able to lift
Hermes from the black gulf of his depression. Instead he walks to the
window to stare across the grounds. A pheasant is thrashing about on the
lawn overlooking the sunken garden. Its neck is broken.
Geraint tips
back his brandy and leaves Hermes to his dark contemplation, he stalks
off to the library to compose several lines of verse.
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