Sebastian sat smirking in amusement. Melusine grasped the hilt of the sword she had been carefully holding, and came out into the light. You are to come home. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. ’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped. .
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