“I should think YOU could do all sorts of things. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. ‘Why don’t you?’ Melusine frowned at him, grasping the dagger more firmly.
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