But this was a vicomte’s sister. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. We vampires have awesome powers of regeneration, given adequate donors. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. ‘You wound me to the heart, Melusine.
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