‘So now you will please to go away and leave me to my business. Wood, in a taunting tone. Oh, God!” Rhea sniffed the air through two gaping nostrils that had eroded through her onion skin flesh. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful.
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