“I’m no drunk,” croaked Cosca. “I simply like the taste of wine. So much so that I have to drink some every few hours or become violently ill.” He clung to his fork while the room swayed around him, fixed his aching smile while they chuckled away. He hoped they enjoyed their laughter while they could, because Nicomo Cosca always laughed last. Provided he wasn’t being sick, of course.”
