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. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. . ’ Melusine’s heart leapt, and as swiftly clattered into dead stillness as the implication of the second name hit home. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through.
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