G'night, kids. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. "Hell's curses!" roared Jonathan. \"Where have you been, young lady?\" Mike crooned, a large grin on his fat Irish face. This time they would call it murder. 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. What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred.
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