It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. Please yourself. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. Not a breath was drawn. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Cathy's eyebrows perked up. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. Brown strode to center stage and Lucy quieted the instruments with a gesture.
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