She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. You jumped, and I think that you left me. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do. The commissionaire smiled. .
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