The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The light would betray us. ‘Pitiful. "I'm not going to get rid of you just yet. Sir John once more looked around him. Stars appeared in the periphery of her vision. Father— dead. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte.
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