A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. Take my advice. Ah, no, I have it wrong. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. I am called Melusine. “No, not that I know of,” Michelle replied, her still eyes not meeting Lucy’s. He nodded silently, too full for words. She felt she had to go on.
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