’ Melusine heard a note of triumph in his voice and turned, a questioning look in her face. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I'd like to be alone now. ‘What has that to say to anything?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ smiled Lucy nervously. His expression became pained. She's fine. It hit her just above the knee. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought.
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