It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. Melusine came in, picked up the lantern, and heard the library door bang open just as the panel clicked closed behind her. She drew a breath, and sighed it out. ‘But what is it that amuses you, Jacques?’ Kimble’s grin spread wider. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. A deadlock. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days. And so she came upon the word Love. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her.
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