Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. ’ ‘Truly?’ Melusine said excitedly. I was his wife. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally.
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