Birdsong—a cacophony never heard on Moore’s Place—woke Meg. She lay on her left side, n***d and chilly under the thin sheet. Her head throbbed and she tried to reenter oblivion, but it was no good. Bars of sunlight slid into the room through hastily drawn curtains, crossed the polished wooden floor, the dark pink Oriental, and slipped onto the bed.
Meg turned over and watched one creep up Mary’s n***d back, along her spine, as she lay curled on her side, facing away. The light set the soft down along her spine on fire, and Meg could see red in the golden hair. There was something child-like about Mary’s body: compact and new. Her hips were slim, her breasts full—she had a womanly body—but viewed from this angle, she could have been a young girl or even a young boy. Meg traced the downy bl
