’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. I am called Melusine. But I wrapped it in that nun’s gear you give me. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. You’ll come along of me, for you’re under arrest, too. ‘Do not speak of him. There was more shouting. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. She licked his neck, which put him over the top.
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