‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. Very well, then. And so —’ ‘And so she was able to become my—’ Melusine did not say it, for wet-nurse no longer seemed appropriate. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned.
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