“Are you tired?” Carol asked calmly. The question seemed not of
now but of always.
“Yes.”
Carol came up behind her and set her hands on Therese’s
shoulders. Therese could see her hands in her memory—flexible and
strong, the delicate tendons showing as they pressed her
shoulders. It seemed an age as her hands moved toward her neck
and under her chin, an age of tumult so intense it blotted out
the pleasure of Carol’s tipping her head back and kissing her
lightly at the edge of her hair. Therese did not feel the kiss at
all.
“Come with me,” Carol said.
THE
PRICE
OF
SALT
by CLAIRE MORGAN
Bantam Books · New York