“You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. Lucy looked down, noticing that Michelle had left her shoes in the entryway. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out.
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