Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. ’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘Because I can’t live without you!’ ‘That is your own affair, and—’ Melusine broke off, staring at him, shocked realisation kicking in her gut.
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