“If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. "Mercy!" screamed Mrs. ” She commented, only to herself. Wood, sharply. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. 32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes.
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