“How long do we have?” I asked, studying her form as I spoke. She looked a little older than she was, her meatiness overshadowing the youthful purity of her skin, her mature mane of hair belying her innocent eyes. I took her for twenty-three, looking all of twenty-eight in the right light. The muscles of her hand suggested musical training. I smiled.
-Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov