She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. But it was very hard to follow. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. She would be healthy, too, and vigorous. “In private. ‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. Roof open —like a Noah’s Ark.
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