CHAPTER TWENTY
Words could hardly hope to convey Freya’s primitive urges, yet somehow George managed; her little boy reducing these bold, burgeoning feelings to structured sentences. To hear him speak of them, to see them shaped by the same mouth that kissed her goodnight before bed, was the most monstrous thing...
“Lunch, darling?” she said that afternoon, moving to the refrigerator. Lizzie leafed through a magazine at the dinner table. “I’m happy to cook. Shepherd’s pie? Some pork belly? I bought some spices from the market, just last week.”
Without looking up from her magazine, Lizzie shrugged. “Don’t worry about lunch. I’m going out.”
“You’re going out?”
“I’m meeting with Rachel, remember? To discuss my art project. School might be shut but the deadline’s still looming.”
She thou
