Its parents have perished. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. He patted the hand on his sleeve. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk. I'll call it my wedding gift. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. "I thought you were asleep.
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