As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. The foremost, tall, clean-shaven, perfectly groomed, half extended his hand with a smile of recognition. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer.
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