That's all... that's all.

"I think you're Tristan, from the Tristan and Isolde myth. This is your kind of issue, I think."

"Really?" Basel tilted her gamine-cap back on her head, fluttering glitterice-blue smudged eyelids at him, "So who are you?"

Tambourin looked up at the streetlamps above them and pursed his lips wistfully.

"Imagine Don Juan," He said slowly, "only he did enter the seminary, and he never uses his hands."

"There's a lot you can do, loverboy, without hands." Basel winked at him.

"Not me." He smiled a lowdown, beatific smile and shook his head, all eyelashes and greying hair falling in his face. "That's not my way."

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