The Sparhawk Bride [antikvár]

Prologue St-Pierre, Martinique 1754 ^^Look at them, Michel!" whispered Antoinette G6ri-cault urgentiy. "Look at them and remember all they have stolen from you!" Her fingers clenched the boy's shoulders tightly, her nails sharp through the worn linen of his shirt. But Michel did not flinch. He deserved whatever discipline Maman gave him. Hadn't she proved to him times beyond counting that he was wicked and shiftless, scarcely worth the toil it cost her to feed him? If she didn't love him so much, she wouldn't bother to correct him or strive so hard to make him worthy of his heritage. And of her. He must be worthy of Maman's love, for she was all he had. "Look at them, Michel!" Her breath was hot on his ear as she leaned farther over his shoulder and out the single window of the attic room they shared. "Mo/i Dieuy that they should come here to my very doorstep after so many years! Look at all they have, while you must go wanting!"