“Or a few special peaches,” the Countess murmured, taking up the volume of verse beside her, with a little, mirthless, half-hysterical laugh.
To a Faithless Friend.
To V.O.I. and S.C.P.
For Stephen.
When the Dormitory Lamp burns Low.
Her gaze travelled over the Index.
“Read something, dear,” Mademoiselle Blumenghast begged, toying with the red-shaded flower in her burnished curls.
“Gladly; but oh, Olga!” the Countess crooned.
“What!”
“Where’s the wind?”