She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. ’ ‘Lady Bicknacre too,’ said Lucilla, a delight in her voice that grated on Melusine. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. She took the initiative and guided his fingers inside her and bore down.
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