Their small talk continued. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. ‘I do not remember the name,’ Melusine said, turning to Mrs Ibstock. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. Nice, of course. You may perceive harmony, proportion, rhythm, intensely. "I am, Charcoal. He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had.
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