His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. ‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. You are my slave—and such you shall continue. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. .
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