It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. Through no fault of her own. It heralded you, promised you.
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