. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. . ‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. After all, they’re history in the making. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. “My brother’s room when he comes home.
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