The fair boy in the audience who had waved was yet another suitor. She had looked forward to an explanation. This made the eleventh. Melusine flew after him, the sword held out before her and pointing directly at his retreating back. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. ‘If you love me, you will say it, or else I will blow off your head. Not a moment is to be lost. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded.
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