Something seemed awry. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. There were more of us back then, and we weren’t seen as ghouls, in fact, in Greece and the time before we were worshipped as gods. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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