‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. She fell into another depression, refusing to touch Sebastian or call him husband when he demanded it. “I thought we had discussed that, father. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. A door in this house opened upon the yard.
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