“A sword?” I mumbled, my head buried in the soft pillow of the bed I was lying on.
“An épée,” Cahl corrected.
His weight sagged the mattress.
“You had gone to fetch a sword?”
“I had gone to steal an épée, to be precise. Its name is Azoth. It would have belonged to a famous alchemist, Paracelsus.”
“Swan has this kind of thing?” I wondered.
“I’m going to remove the glass. But what was wrong with you? If it had been hardened glass, you would have smashed your skull.”
Really? I hadn’t thought about that, gee whiz! I laughed mentally.
In response, Cahl viciously pinched my buttocks, wisely covered with a modest sheet. I squealed in pain then swivelled my head enough to give him a black look. He responded with an amused smirk.
Cahl held some tweezers in one hand and the other a small cu
