It was 1582. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. ’ She frowned suddenly. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed. Melusine sighed with frustration. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. She was no longer a confederate in that. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney.
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