8. She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. As for my past, Michelle, and Michael’s, it is a book of woeful chapters better left unread. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. ‘Well, we’ll just go on up and have a look at this here passage, missie, shall we?’ ‘Have I not been saying so?’ snapped Melusine, exasperated. Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment longer—so here goes. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. Sebastian drank deeply and quickly of her blood. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. The boy doesn't know it, but I dug into his trunk for something to identify him and stumbled upon some manuscripts. That was the true marvel of it. It is positively hateful to think of it.
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