Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Her little white hand stole across the table. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases.
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