What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. It was some time later, after a series of these devastating assaults, that Melusine found herself seated on the sofa lately vacated by Lucilla and Captain Roding, cuddled firmly in the arms of a major of militia reduced quite to idiocy. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony.
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