Christelle Dabos

In the dusk, through a corridor of crimson-turning clouds, the moon already stood out, like a china plate, against the mauve backcloth of the sky.

Here, before you, I predict that your husband’s will is going to shatter against yours

As the gas lamps slowly came back on, Ophelia no longer saw Farouk, limply closing his notebook; or Berenilde, coming towards her in a graceful rippling of dress; or Aunt Rosaline, gesticulating wildly at her with her parasol.
She saw only Thorn in his big, black uniform, at the very back of the auditorium, well hidden from view. He was not applauding.