You are the High Priestess of Life. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. Go out there and head him off, will you? Tell him anything you like, but don’t let him in, and don’t tell him Melusine is here. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics. I’ll walk over there once I change clothes. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis.
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