To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. “But where are you going? Lucy, you’re safe here. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. I completed it according to the directions, you see, and it was a beautiful machine, a triangle sort of, with a steering column I built out of an old wheelbarrow and a hubcap. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent.
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