“In private. “You say that he is alive. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. ’ Melusine heard a note of triumph in his voice and turned, a questioning look in her face. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ ‘But looking for proof,’ Melusine uttered impatiently. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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