The flat was apparently empty. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. I don’t want to bother you, of course. ‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled. It feels like it. I want you beyond measure or reckoning. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand.
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