’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. She had looked forward to an explanation. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever.
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