‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. Happy to do anything in my power.
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