Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. . He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. It was a moment before he recognised that the effect had been similar on all those present, including General Lord Charvill. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. Melusine’s heart ached for him, but she had to force him on.
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