She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. Until she had left her island, what she heard and what she saw were truths. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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