When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced. ‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled.
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