Sir Lawrence Teilhard found his captor lying face down on her bed.
The
Necromancer-Technician Aconite’s purple satin sheets spilled between
bed posts onto the floor. The lady herself was in dishabille, her arms
stretched forward as though diving. They were, in fact, stuck in a robe
she had put on halfway before giving up. Her feet hung over the foot of
the bed. Aconite wore one black stocking and, praise be, her panties.
Teilhard cleared his throat, brushing his mustache with a knuckle.
