‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. Here again instinct guided her. She drew her naked arms around herself. 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. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. He came into the club next day, and of course we went for him thick. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.
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