“Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. It has instead found you. ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. "You are angry?" "Very.
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