—Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 25 It was like old days, Parker thought. He would get into trouble, and Maggie would patch him up. She glared at him now, stirring something with a little pestle. “I thought this kind of thing was over, when you became a fine gentleman for the King.” Parker looked down at his shirt lying on the floor, cut to ribbons, and at the deep cuts in his shoulder. “The King’s business is not all courtly dances and days at the joust.” Maggie snorted. Her tiny sylph of an assistant stepped forward with a jug of water, and Maggie held the mortar out for her to pour in a splash. “Will it heal well?” Susanna sounded as though she were fighting something when she spoke. Every word was measured. “Aye.” Maggie looked disgusted, as if she’d hoped it were otherwise. “Nothing important was damaged, and he can feel down his arm to his fingertips, so he should make a full recovery if he keeps it clean.” She lifted up some of the mixture in the mortar with a spoon and dropped a little onto Parker’s shoulder.
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