She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. A rare moment of amusement lightened Melusine’s mood for a moment. Collins, you can go now. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls.
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