Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song.
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