‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so.
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