I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. They were those of the Irish watchman. “Not at all. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. The girl was in the game now, and that narrowed the circle.
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