Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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