Health has ill favoured don Bonaccorso in his sunset years. The man presides over a room like a spider, half draped on his chair, half collapsed. He has requested his audiences, and, yet, by the time his summoned answer, he is — adrift. Nearly maudlin.

He asks, with a hand's waved flourish, for the recipient of his audience favour to sit, sooner than bend the knee.

"No need, no need. Speak, then. What do you make of our fine Taravast?"