They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. "Ah! traitor!" cried Jack, pulling the trigger of his pistol. But in a moment, it was tucked under his arm and, raising the pistol again, he gestured towards the door opposite the one where Melusine stood. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. After five or six years it would not be difficult to hide in Italy or in France. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree.
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