I heard John was talking about you again from Jenny McIntyre. I was visiting the royal family, as they sought me for a tutor for their sons over the summer. There never is much left for me. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. Several people were passed out on the sectional sofa, and muffled noises emanated from other rooms indicating that the party’s embers were still smoldering, but John was nowhere to be seen. ‘No!’ Melusine snapped as he tugged at the thing. Not alone with her, that’s sure. .
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