She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. She had never fasted before as a vampire, and a horrible twisting pain emerged in her gut, shaking her legs with muscle cramps. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. . With some difficulty, they managed to negotiate the passage with their burden and carry him out into the library. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred.
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