the smuggler’s bible

Alisander

Alisander comes to, slumped in a chair, while a varlet fills a wine glass in front of him. He is wearing a silk shirt and fine boots. Somebody has taken away his sword, and—perhaps more importantly—the bleeding seems to have stopped.

“Careful, there,” Morgan le Fay says. She is sitting across the table with her glass poised in the air halfway to her mouth, about to drink. Or perhaps she has already sipped, Alisander thinks. Her lips shine, curved slightly, the color of pomegranate seeds.

She shrugs. “You won’t die but, brother, believe me, rehab is gonna hurt.”