We can be married tomorrow in Paris. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. ‘Does Charvill know that this Melusine of yours is here?’ The question distracted Gerald. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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