At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. " "But you are young!" It was a protest, almost vehement. 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. "He left an envelope with some money in it.
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