Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. Wood laughed louder than ever. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life.
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