CHAPTER 9
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CHARLOTTE:
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THERE WAS A CONVERSATION that Lucia and I had when we were young girls, leaning over the side of a moss and lichen splotched stone bridge watching trains passing by below us, their long white tails of steam rising from the sturdy carriages curving around the bend in the valley, the sounds and smells and rumbling vibrations gradually fading from view. It had been an autumnal afternoon, the smell of dying leaves and the imminent end of a vacation hung in the air. It seemed fitting that we should have been staring at those railway tracks stretching into the vanishing horizon whilst pondering, somewhat bleakly, the direction and shape our respective futures would take when we returned home.
It hardly seemed fair that neither Lucia or I would ever be
