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‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. To compare me to a starving pig. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. ‘I told you I would find out all about you, Melusine.
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