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... on. It smelled of swamp water, cheap perfume, and fear.

Marquis Grieve sat on the velvet settee, his mottled green skin glistening with slime. He was eating a bowl of flies—candied, imported flies—one by one, his long tongue darting out with a wet thwip sound that made Cassia gag.

The Thistle family stood before him, looking like they had been dragged through a hedge backward. Because they had.

They were covered in mud. Lupin’s face was still puffy from the hives. Barnab ...

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