“Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. The castle stood on the main island which connected to the mainland by a foreboding stone and wooden bridge. 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. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. “How are you feeling?” She asked. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. In fact he was thinking of other things.
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