Innamorata

Quill and ink and parchment were still set out neatly on the table, like a lord’s uneaten meal, because Adele-Blanche had died as she lived, armoring herself in words. So Agnes lay in bed, her vision clouded with strange hazes, bizarre images that rippled from one to the next without coherence or reason. Lord Fredegar was so fastidious in his accounting.” It took a moment for Agnes to understand. Finally, Agnes was able to summon up some half-numb courage.