The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. Still, there certainly was something in the idea of a treaty. John Sheppard. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. “I am one who controls most of the Church, dear.
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