3.7
Early-autumn sunshine shafted through her bedroom window, a sea breeze causing the shadow of the paperbark in Heather’s back garden to dance on the opposite wall. Yvette made a mental note to suggest to Heather that she move the block print to avert fading. She turned onto her back and gazed absently at the ceiling, placing both hands over her belly, feeling the heat from her palms on the taut skin around her navel. And a quiet triumph pervaded her despite her apprehensions. In under a year she’d replaced the fruit of one man’s seed for that of another. For the first time she thought of Carlos as part of her history. She could conjure his image without craving his presence, and Malta, that island filled with the artefacts of the underworld, at once glorious and grotesque, was set free
