“You asked me in to tea,” he protested. Selecting a key from the heavy bunch committed to him by Austin, he threw open the door, and beheld Blueskin seated at the back of the small chamber, handcuffed, and with his feet confined in a heavy pair of stocks. He was chained to the ground, but started up at their approach. It’s not you—not a bit. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound.
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