Gerald kicked the panelled wall in frustration. Then he threw the letter at me. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. Enschede's daughter. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. Answering him was agonizing. Michelle had begged her to do it. I cannot turn into a bat.
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