I met you here as Lady Ferringhall. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. .
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