His attention was focused on Melusine’s transfixed stare and he forgot to say any of the things he had planned to say. She sighed with relief. Funny how all but the most cunning and promiscuous teenage girls never caught on, not in 1400, certainly not now. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him.
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