“Please, stay a while longer. ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. When she arrived at the Palazzo, not a single sentry was aware of her presence.
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