Ursa sees her: Astral Forde, the iron-fisted keep-miss manager of the dozen little cottages that call themselves the Mile Trees Colony Hotel. She's standing with them on the platform out at the monument that last night, and she's holding a bath towel and a glass of soursop juice for her on a tray, just as she used to years ago beside the swimming pool at the hotel: and in the woman's veiled gaze, directed at her, is the look from years ago that had said if looks could kill, bo, you'd be dead.