‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. ’ A multitude of changes flitted across Melusine’s features as she stood there for a space, unusually silent. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended.
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