’ Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. Celeste he knew.
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