‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. She never calls herself ‘Alcide. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain.
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