At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it. She was reasonably certain why. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. He was all alone, too. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. Reverse psychology or something, it’s like she was trying to draw him nearer by pushing him away. . ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces.
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