She changed her mind that day, as her mother Marina had predicted. “And of course you are my niece just as Annabel is, although I am sorry to learn that your conduct has been much less discreet than hers. Here one might live the life of golden days. 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. She knew it. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute.
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