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 reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. She dismissed the idea of doing so. Capes sat down in the armchair beside her. You're alone, too, child. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it.
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