It reminds me of my brother, who, before our Tour, would take brandy in the mornings after a night drinking himself sick at the clubs, smelled of whiskey more often than aftershave, and who, had he ever dueled, he would likely have been saved from a fatal bullet by the flask in his breast pocket. I know now why: after years of abuse at the hands of our father, he had felt himself unable to experience the world sober. It makes me wonder what demons Alexander Platt keeps barricaded away with that small box of shimmering powder.
