CHAPTER J
Priscilla Young sat at the bed’s edge drinking straight from the wine bottle; not having ever drunk alcohol or caffeine or gom or razz-tazz; not a smoker, not a blossom huntress; nothing but Purity: "It’s your heritage," as if it had to be said! … she is sarcastic with herself: Me?! – she knows he’s dead, not having seen dead before, but he is, she’s sure: swigs: someone inside her guzzles an unfathomable swig: that someone who has always been there … "Heritage?" comes mocking, but not a voice sound, just looking at him, corpse there, on the floor, wanting to laugh – "Ha!" a curt snarl escaping: this she knows is her Heritage … he being so much the Marcher, so much the Rider: all over her and in her and through her; he had even knelt before her, she in naked splendor, knowing that her aura suffused him, bathed him, he uttering words without sounds, sounds without motion, motions without thoughts – "I adore you!" but she said, Not enough!; "I worship you!" but she said, Not enough!; "I exult you!" and so she let him die: I am the Lord thy …
She imbibed only half the bottle.
Then she left.
"Cilla!" It was the buoyant voice of her Sister, Lilith.
Followed quickly with a warm press on her hand, "It’s a boy!"
When they left – Lil and Zav – Cilla pressed her belly ever so lightly: "Living tomb!" she whisper: Ancient Ones!: knowing the whisper will reach Mark; feeling March stir within her.
"Lazarus," so his son she named.