‘ “A girl who was to murder as maestros are to music”?’ Drusilla looked up from the book she was reading, blood-red edges on the pages, a black crow embossed upon the cover. A mirthless smirk twisted her lips. ‘Black Goddess, he really thinks a lot of his own prose, doesn’t he?’ ‘Everyone’s a critic.’ Aelius propped his cigarillo on his lips and shrugged at the book. ‘But aye, some of the metaphors are perhaps a bit much.’ ‘Thank the Goddess he doesn’t talk the way he writes. If he sounded this pretentious when he opened his mouth, I’d have had him murdered years ago.’
lol
