Monday: Lucianna
stared at Serafino and the wooden plate in his hands, heaped with roast venison
in a sauce that smelled of pepper, a chicken pasty, and a pork tart, all topped
with a kidney stew that was surely soaking the pasty and tart shells to mush.
Tuesday: The
abbess herself had christened the babe Lucianna for she had been discovered on
the bitter cold morn of Saint Lucia’s Day.
Thursday: Lucianna
had called Sir Balduin many things in an attempt to drive a wedge between them,
but she had never called him that! “Did he say I called him a buffoon?”
Friday: She,
Lucianna, who had always been called tigress, fury, spitfire, even once by an
overawed suitor in her youth, an Amazon for her bold, fiery ways, had in truth
been a pathetic, selfish, frightened child to have allowed Serafino to
manipulate her so shamefully for nearly thirty years.
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