She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully. My wife—killed me. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true.
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