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She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. "And now, having got rid of the minor obstacles," said Jonathan, "I'll submit a plan for the removal of the main difficulty. I kicked the living shit out of him.
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