272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. It’s Italian. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. No one spoke to her. The man was mad to marry me. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The stain upon our family is only half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain and his bastard, and I will keep my oath. This is not what I want. ’ She saw suspicion darken his gaze. ’ Melusine’s voice petered out. You can do it, if you will.
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