All human food tasted equally dead and loathsome to her, whether it was prime steak or cheap hamburger. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. Mike answered the door while still toweling his hands dry. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn.
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