Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. Entranced, he stared at the name. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. “May I hear?” “It really isn’t much to tell,” Drummond answered. How would it serve Nicholas to keep the truth from his daughter? A tiny thread of disquiet troubled him. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. He would go there.
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