’ Taken aback, Gerald let out a short laugh. Most unsatisfactory. I love him as a brother. ’ About to hurry from the little parlour, Melusine remembered Mrs Ibstock. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. His legs were fine and strong, he told her that he had been a warrior in ancient times, to which she snorted in disgust. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known.
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