Katy had sneered at her for a moment, their eyes locking. “I was sick of the make-believe. Ten thousand islands, and each one good for a night's rest. Three little letters can’t make a bit of difference. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher.
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