He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Michelle shrugged her off. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Melusine’s eyes blazed into his. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. "Because it's not like you," was her answer.
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