Chapter 52 Fifty-two

Moya golubushka. My little dove.

Her hand came to her mouth, the paper shaking in her grasp. 

Bardulf didn't call her that. No... Bardulf didn't write this, did he? There was simply no way he would write something like that; it didn't sound like him at all.

She couldn't fathom it. Imagining Bardu...

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