Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ” He paused. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. This I know, for the Valades have taught me so, and the nuns also. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. He felt himself collapse heavily onto her naked body, still inside her.
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