You never want to see me again. You are a Christian and married—happily married—and you never want to see me again.
That's why you summon me to this out-of-the-way parish church, at an hour where no one is likely to be there. There is a small copse of woods nearby, I can hear its presence—a very practical choice, Zilpha my love. That's why you cross the distance between us in a few short steps, hike up your skirts and sit yourself down on my lap. Under your skirts, you are wearing your black stockings. Above that, nothing. Just your flesh moving up on me, restless and burning hot. I feel you. Yes.
I move my hand up to grasp at your bare thigh. Will your slug of a husband notice my marks, later? I don't care. You want to be my sister and nothing more. That's why you bend down and kiss me, a chaste sisterly kiss yes, you draw my tongue into your mouth and let me have a taste. Ravenous, that's what you are. And then you move off and straighten up your skirts before walking out—exactly as before.
After you've left the church I start to pray. Not in English, that bastard slaver's tongue, nor in papist Latin either, but in Twi and in our language—you know which one. No more letters, now. Your husband probably reads them all in any case. I'll go where he can't reach. Down in the spirit, where you and I are the same. In the forest you still visit though no longer in body, in the forest where we can both be as loud as we like.
Late at night, I gather up my things and sit by the fire. Watch as the flames take on your form. It won't be long now.