The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. "Whatever you say—you, behind those stars there, if you are a God. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. But that is men all over. ‘Is it such a terrible prospect? I will take care of you—as long as you obey me.
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