’ Melusine’s heart leapt, and as swiftly clattered into dead stillness as the implication of the second name hit home. ’ ‘So this is the way you serve me,’ exclaimed Melusine, her quick temper flaring as she jumped up, slammed her hands on the desk and leaned towards him over it. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. She felt her canines growing.
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