But even you cannot alter her character. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. ‘I begin to ask myself why it is that I wish to become of these people. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. ‘So that’s true, is it?’ ‘Certainly it is true,’ Melusine said, opening her eyes wide. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. He suspected a trap. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had.
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