‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. Vorsack. ’ ‘Then you’re mad,’ Roding said flatly, and suddenly grinned. In a moment they were in the street outside. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. "Choose, Jack.
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