The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. She had expected a love story; and love was totally absent. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. The air was thick with feelings. It was better even than the hymn-singing. Melusine feigned a displeased frown. It was a duel, you understand, and that is not permitted.
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