She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. ‘You see, Melusine, that none of our visitors were as informed as they would wish to be. I wasn’t.
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