She hastened past. She had refused to eat human beings when she had first learned her fate. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “I was frightened then,” she declared. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. Michelle was sounding alarm bells everywhere in Lucy’s brain, but Lucy felt the pull of a 188 greater inertia, the urge to stay put so strong that to deny it was to deny the existence of gravity.
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