Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Montague Hill. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. Then he sensed the trap. ’ ‘Certainly he is not a friend,’ Melusine agreed, ‘but he has gone, after all. He has always plenty of evidence in reserve. ’ ‘Do not make a game with me,’ she interrupted, gripping her underlip firmly between her teeth to stop the threatening laughter. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting.
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