When we swam, we wore what the natives called a madras, a huge square of dyed cotton or nankeen that we wrapped about us with the ease of an Indian with her sari. Often I kicked myself free of it in the water, swimming naked, like one of the wild creatures around me. I donned one of purple and brown, the darkest I owned, then waited in an agony of nerves until I saw him heading down the path. This time, I followed. I kept at a distance until the torchlight faded and I was swallowed up into darkness, into that moving, breathing organism that was the jungle at night. I still tried to find another reason for his destination, for despite her beauty, it was difficult to believe even the most overpowering lust would drive my father to her of all women. My mother being such an arrogant specimen herself, I didn't think Solange's overweening pride would repel him. But she'd lived in Paris, attending a convent school, because her brother, César Doumier, manumitted by a loving father, had been educated there, becoming one of the most powerful voices for emancipation, and in consequence, a rather large thorn in my father's side.
What do You think about Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1)?
