‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. So long as she could remember, her father had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully dressed. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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