And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. This will be safer than cutting his throat on shore.
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