Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. Papa has sent me to be religieuse. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. But her words were not addressed to Melusine. The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. I almost wish we hadn't come.
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