She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. ‘Do you swear it? There’s no knowing if one can believe you. ‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. But it is not your name.
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