the oracle said, appearing more than a little satisfied with herself, as she turned her back on Gwendolen, walked with a sensual swagger across the room, and left the door open behind her. Gwendolen entered and looked around the quiet chamber. A hot fire was blazing in the hearth. The whisky decanter had been emptied almost entirely, and the bedclothes were torn off the mattress and thrown to the floor in a massive heap of silks and linens. Gwendolen took in Raonaid’s overall appearance—her tattered, homespun skirt and bodice, her tiny waist and ample bosom, and the strange cord of bones tied around her neck. She hated to admit it, but there was a natural majesty about her husband’s former lover, especially in the way she carried herself, with such pride and dignity. Any fool could see that she embodied everything a man would find appealing in a woman, and exuded an air of sexuality as well. Gwendolen had to fight against the sudden twinge of jealousy that poked at her confidence.
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