A creeping numbness invaded her. ‘Deaf? Deaf? I’ll have you know, miss—’ ‘Do not have me know anything,’ interrupted Melusine crossly, and digging into her habit, produced the fateful dagger that had cut Gerald’s hand. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. “These are the times that would make me glad to live forever, if only they lasted.
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