She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture. “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. Let’s go up to my room. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. My foster mom works there as a second job. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. It was not your fault you failed.
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