Ancel had heard men waffle on about Isagoras before, so he knew just what to say. When he didn’t know what to say, he knew how to gaze into Berenger’s eyes and ask questions.
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‘Congratulations,’ Louans said, only a little bitterly. He may have been outmanoeuvred by his own pet, but the deal overall reflected well on him. ‘Your career is made.’
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I’ve never had a redhead,’ said Lord Rouart. ‘Try me out,’ said Ancel.
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When he looked at himself in the mirror now, he no longer saw a boy from a brothel who could be had for a few coins, but something far more expensive, more polished, and more desirable, particularly when his face was daubed with paint.
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The offer came two days later. A year’s contract, at ten times the rate paid by the merchant’s son. Ancel smiled. Louans was still only a merchant. But he went to parties with aristocrats, and now Ancel had a sense of scale.
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‘Is it red everywhere?’ ‘Guess,’ said Ancel.
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He made up a figure. There was no Lord Arten. Ancel landed his first contract that day: three months of his time, signed over to the merchant’s son. At the end of it, he was gifted a peridot. The colour of his eyes, green as emeralds. But not as expensive.
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Ancel was a virgin the first twelve times he had sex. The thirteenth time, it lacked all plausibility.