The alley is pitch black. The Lambourg Fiaccola rumbles smoothly, softly,
lights off. From her place in the Lambourg’s passenger seat, Ingrid lowers her
light-intensifying shades and looks around. The interior of the car is so black 
that Ivette, straw-colored hair and all, is no more than a vague shape behind 
the Lambourg’s steering wheel, barely distinguishable even though she and Ingrid
are sitting side by side.