A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. I’ve been wondering where she got her dogged will, and that hot-headed adventurous spirit, for it wasn’t from either Mary or Nicholas, that’s sure. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. Melusine, her breath coming in short bursts, heard a sudden flurry of several heavy footsteps and harsh commands exchanged. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations.
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