Then she saw the bodies piled in the corner. Her patience was waning fast. “Fuck you, Julian Rimbauer. You had better go to bed. She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. She went to market every day to fetch the daily bread and more herbs for more medicines and potions, plus treats for the apprentices made of honey and almond paste. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. That is not reasonable.
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