She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm. But to England we will go. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn.
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