Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. Huge trees obscured the view of it. “There was a keg, hash, LSD, pot, you know, the usual. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. He glanced up. But—Miss Pellissier!” “Well?” “Are you quite sure that you want us this evening? Wouldn’t you rather be alone? Just say the word, and we’ll clear out like a shot. She had not seen him in two and a half centuries. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. She was suddenly grave. It was a haunted place.
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