We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. He might solve the riddle. 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. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all.
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