On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. Don't strip me quite. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them.
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