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He looked at her with wary suspicion, mostly because of the immodesty of two women holding one another’s hands. ‘She is my friend from the southern lands,’ said Glade who had told Flint an expurgated and sanitised version of her travels in the southern lands. ‘She’s the one who drifted away from me on the great sea.’ ‘And she isn’t dead?’ said Flint, who made a brave attempt to display a more usual welcoming face. ‘This is good news indeed. She is welcome to stay for as long as she likes.’ This wasn’t a generosity of spirit, however, that could last for long. Even on the first night that Demure stayed with them, he confessed to his wife as they lay together that he wasn’t sure he trusted the black-skinned woman. She had a way about her which didn’t engender trust. She wasn’t open in her conversation. She was unusually careful with her words and her questions were too probing. Flint was also deeply uncomfortable with the degree of physical intimacy the two women expressed towards each. She shivered as the cool night air touched her sleep warmed skin, her back arched and she squirmed closer into the blanket, as she felt something sliding down her back, not cutting or painful just slightly sharp, a small sound of disappointment came from her lips as it stopped suddenly. Elizabeth rolled over, rubbing her back against the sheets, her arms stretched over her head, then bent around her pillow, she let out a small sigh then shivered again as a warm breath of air drifted over her bare breasts, her arms came down and her hands rubbed over her breasts, she moaned in her sleep feeling the warm breath of air slide over her stomach. Elizabeth woke with a start, for a moment trying to place the noise, swearing she slammed off the alarm clock, getting up she glared at the clock, stalking into the kitchen for coffee, she muttered "Mondays suck, Taipei," pouring herself a cup of coffee she trudged half asleep up the stairs to shower and dress. She sat in front of her Queen Anne.
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