Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. . " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales.
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