‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. My nerves are shaken.
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