i lifted my arms and closed my eyes , focusing on the sensation of our bodies moving together in a primal , erotic rhythm . i could n't help but fantasize they were king 's large hands on my body , his muscular arms gripping me to him , grinding our h * ps intimately together . when i opened my eyes , however , it was n't king

the stones were intimately connected with the balance between life and death , a latent power to be used for good or evil . certainly the nun 's death at varanasi had resulted in miracles . joseph pulled out one of the loose leaves from the book he was reading . it was a page from a diary in latin script with a translation beside it . from the middle ages , it described a brother in the church murdering another for one of the stones

it 's a discomfort he 's grown accustomed to ; he 's slept this way since age thirteen , when his father woke him at three in the morning , telling him to hurry and get ready . it was his mother . she was in the hospital , her illness racing its course . the doctor had called . they 'd best come . hurry . confused and half asleep , morris flailed about his room , trying to dress

but not light blue like most people . they were dark like indigo . she wondered what he would look like now . where he would be . who he would be with ... the stack slipped from her grasp , all one-hundred photos splaying out onto the wood floor . belinda panicked , trying to corral them with her palms when she caught glimpses of herself in a couple of the
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