* * *
That young, sinuous arm pushing the flap open did not belong to her husband. Her eyes snapped open. They alit on Suero, sitting across from his mother, with that ever-present goshawk perched on his specially padded shoulder. He handed bits of bread up to its sharp beak. She wondered at his audacity to carry the bird with him after what it had done to her husband’s face. The count should have had it killed.
* * *
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