His breakfast despatched, which he ate with a wolfish appetite, he walked over to Newgate, chuckling as he went at the consternation which his appearance would create amongst the turnkeys. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. But on Sunday he had been obliged to attend to certain matters for the nuns. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. It was horrible, but she must do it. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them.
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