AND SO DOES MADELEINE. And to flush this way, for his sake—as though a blush were contagious, as though it could spread like Roman fever through the night air—it alarms her. She does not understand what is happening. She wrestles her hands away from Marguerite, then flees, racing across the black lawns, seeking water: a fountain, a fish pond, troughs in the stables, the pump outside the kitchen door—just water, please. Away she runs, made swift by terror, looking for a cool, dark place; for wetness; relief.
She has felt this once before: this slow, corrosive burn.