’ ‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. 6. Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. ‘Ah.
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