He remembered it—a story. One that had caused him to vomit when he’d found it by accident in a History book as a boy. A book he was not supposed to have. It had belonged to Professor Ludwig, and he’d stolen it. It couldn’t have been his Agatha, not the woman in that terrifying story. Goddess, tell him it hadn’t been her. “We were tied by our feet to the legs of a warhorse.” No...no. “The king commanded that the horse be whipped relentlessly, dragging us through the streets and past the gates of Merveille until my back was ripped to the spine and—”
