CHAPTER XVII. He could imagine it even if he could not feel it. 32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety. “I didn’t blow up the house.
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