She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. 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. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. "Mother, I come to you. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. The blood will rest on your head.
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