‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive.
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