She turned her head to each side. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. He waved an arm and spoke with a peculiar resonance. “I love you, I always will. Master, your humble servant. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours.
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