I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ‘I was not born to this. ‘Now then, missie, where do you think you’re going?’ ‘I must see Jacques only for one little minute,’ Melusine told him prettily, fluttering her lashes. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. You have been useful to me, or I would not have spared you thus long.
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