A slender young man, wearing glasses, appeared from the shadow of the nearest van. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword. His hand flew across the paper. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. “You did not wish to see him particularly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her.
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