It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen. Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. It’s kind of the World War II thing. She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth.
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