Her aunt went off at a tangent. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. The struggle was brief, and Gerald stepped aside, the pistol in his possession, while the girl Melusine stood trembling and glaring. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. You are the High Priestess of Life. B.
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