Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. ‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. You know I am in love with you.
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