Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. ’ Melusine sobered, sitting down again. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. The lad looked alarmed.
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