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"Hear the letter," said Ireton, breaking the seal. “But, dear, think! He is your father. He has no imagination, no real generosity. Herculis was surrounded by an archipelago, which local chroniclers had claimed was teeming with mermaids. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. ‘You are wise, Marthe. Was it ruined?’ ‘But yes, it was entirely ruined. We both understood that. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent.
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