“I said coquettishly. It was difficult to be a coquette while trying to keep artichoke leaves out of one’s mouth. We were busy wrestling a very determined taproot up out of the mud. “Hm?” he said, and then “Ha!” as the nasty thing sagged over, defeated in the grass. I bent to cut the parts I needed for processing. “Your artichoke is not your phoenix among herbs,” panted Nicholas, wiping his hands. “Pardon?” “This is not a rare plant, you know,” he pointed out, switching to Latin. “No, not rare, ...but very good for gross humors of the blood.” I sliced off spines. “Or so my father says. Sir Walter is troubled with them, I am told.” “And is your father troubled with them also?” “Sometimes.” I squinted up at him. “There, behold. I have told you more, and you have told me nothing. You have drawn volumes of information out of me. You’d make a good spy.” Coquettishness in Latin. I felt pretty proud of myself. He gave me a look. “Why, Lady, for all I know some friar is hiding close by, writing down every word we say.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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