“Charles, my boy,” William Melion roared, clapping his hands against St. Cyprian’s arms. “Come in, dash it! Come in. It’s been how many years? Five? Six?” Melion was large and burly, with thick mane of greying hair and eyes like blue marbles set into a face burnt brown by the sun and the wind. He was strong as well. St. Cyprian winced as Melion’s hands caught him. The big man was clad only in a dressing gown, which flapped embarrassingly as he moved.
Ghale had briskly driven them to the West...