Chapter Sixteen
Delila was in the bath, washing away the dirt from the grimy trip back to Outer Island. The corner of the train, where she rode for nine long hours, contained hardwood benches that were covered with grease and city smut. She dove under the warm water and lingered there, floating suspended in the treasured liquid, until her eyes began to burn from the soap. Breaking the surface of the water, her dark hair was plastered sleek to her head.
“Refreshing yourself?”
She opened her eyes to see Degas looking at her.
“The bath is soothing.”
“Soothing your skin, or your soul?” he asked.
“Both,” she admitted.
“Ah! You have something to show me?” he asked.
She looked at him not comprehending.
“The marks your husband was to give you.”
“You’re inspecting?” she asked.
“My how al
