The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. ‘You will not guess again?’ ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous.
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