She dismissed the idea of doing so. Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor. “Hainault, Celeste’s friend. I do not want to hear from you even the threat of disobedience. ‘You the fellow Gerald spoke to?’ Kimble flushed beetroot, and Melusine had a flash of insight. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. .
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