’ Chapter Nine As she devoured the simple meal of bread and cheese, and several slices of cold roast beef, the whole washed down with a poor sort of coffee, Melusine listened with avid interest to the details of her mother’s life as revealed by the exclamatory conversation of Joan Ibstock. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. Teenagers don’t have any power, not of any sort, not in your world, not in the old world. It was the grand nursery of vice. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain.
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