“You asked me in to tea,” he protested. Melusine stepped back a pace, her gaze fixed on the vision before her. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it.
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