. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. 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.
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