The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. ” Michelle smiled at Lucy. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it.
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