She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. “Child!” he cried. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten. I was visiting the royal family, as they sought me for a tutor for their sons over the summer. Sheppard, eagerly. I know my son's voice too well. Sepulchre's.
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