Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. . “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. ” “Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
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