What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. She hunted the markets for bread and treats so they could feast during the day.
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