should. The Kalmyk steppe, near Stalingrad, is a bleak place, arid and featureless. If you go there in winter, it’s devastating to the soul. But try going in spring and see what you find.” Prudencia raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Tulips,” whispered Emma Giovanacci. “Tulips?” “Tulips. Fresh, delicate, wild tulips. Tulips that come up every year and cover the steppe, without anyone planting them. And that’s exactly what it’s about, Prudencia. Routine is like the steppe: it’s not a monster, it’s nourishment. If you can get something to grow there you can be sure that it will be real and
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