When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. His bravado waxed and he asked her to what would be her first date in nearly twenty years. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. What was the name on those marriage lines you showed me?’ ‘M—Melusine,’ stammered the woman, her countenance yet registering shock. Lucy sat beside him. 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.
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