Turning, she flew for the nearest door. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. She looked up quickly. We have seen great and sober-minded men come to this unholy city, and become degenerates. Go in, go in, Melusine prayed, hoping desperately that he would not change his mind and take another route. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said.
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