She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Afterwards, it may be different. There was no answer, just grunting, so she repeated the question in Latin, then in Greek, to which Rhea responded. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. It must be the dawn creeping in. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. I'll send for Wu Fang.
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