“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. What was the name on those marriage lines you showed me?’ ‘M—Melusine,’ stammered the woman, her countenance yet registering shock. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. I do not love you. That place was closed by the police last month. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. “You may not leave. “You haven’t seen him in three hundred years?” He asked. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my word. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent.
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