There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. She had very frizzy hair indeed, very black eyebrows, a profusion of metallic adornments about her neck and waist, and an engaging smile. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. She got pregnant. Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched. Such an obvious ruse, but the boys and girls would defend their pride to the bitter end, the facade of study groups during rutting season. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Not that there had ever been any hope of that.
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