De la Furie surveyed the smoldering ruin. His violet eyes were cold. The fire that had consumed his laboratory had burned so hot that the iron supports had melted into a pool of slag. Gray ash, lifted by the eastern breeze, drifted across the grounds. After standing motionless for, perhaps, ten minutes, he gave an exaggerated shrug.
“Even the new century will have its failures,” he said. “We simply cannot repeat them. That would poison our momentum. And speaking of poison …” he turned to glare at me, “We cannot continue to associate with those who would stand in the way of progress.”
He motioned to the Butlers. He said, “Kill her.”