“Let me understand you clearly. Are you agreeing to the sale?”
“Yes,” Father Sandru said, his tone weary now, as though the whole subject had suddenly lost all trace of pleasure for him. “I’m agreeing.”
“Good. I’m delighted.”
Zeffer returned through the maze of furniture to the door, where the priest stood. He extended his hand. “It’s been wonderful dealing with you, Father Sandru.”
Sandru looked down on the proffered hand, and then — after a moment of study — took it. His fingers were cold, his palm clammy. “Do you want to stay and look at what you’ve bought?”
“No. I don’t think so. I think we both need a little sun on our faces.” Sandru said nothing to this; he just turned and led the way out along the corridor to the stairs. But the expression on his face, as he turned, was perfectly clear: there was no more pleasure to be found above as there was down here in the cold; nor prospect of any.