Go easy. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. As in a dream, Melusine saw her faithful footman struck, his headlong progress checked. Listen to me, Thames.
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