That was the question, wasn't it? Don Juan rubbed his fingers over the buttons on the shirt sleeves, debating whether to button them or roll them up to his elbows and ultimately accomplishing nothing except savoring the friction of the button against his fingertips. "I think..." he said eventually, in a plodding tone that implied he was coming to the conclusion gradually as he spoke it. "...opium isn't the only thing that's ruined me."

He had made some of his most infamous mistakes while he'd been sober, after all. Getting caught with Elfrieda Yaxley, or fleeing her husband's duel. Most of the missteps he'd made in Spain. The last real conversation he'd had with Dean Hudson. He didn't have to be high to hurt people, or to wreck his life — though he couldn't deny that it had done plenty of damage, too. And if he'd never started — well, maybe half of it would never have happened. If Hudson hadn't left him, the first time around.

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