Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. ’ Melusine fought down the raw emotion that threatened to overwhelm her and drew a steadying breath. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. CHAPTER XVI.
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