Manor Lords Quotes

How do you accidentally kill a lord in his own manor?' with a knife to the chest...well a pair of knives actually, one can never be too careful

Leo knew next to nothing about governesses, save for the drab creatures in novels, who tended to fall in love with the lord of the manor, always with bad results.

Attacking a provincial lord in his manor house, surrounded by guards...Honestly, Kell, I'd nearly forgotten how foolhardy you can be. "Foolhardy?" Kelsier asked with a laugh. "that wasn't foolhardy - that was just a small diversion. You should see some of the things I'm planning to do! Dockson stood for a moment then he laughed too. "By the Lord Ruler, it's good to have you back, kell! I'm afraid I've grown rather boring during the last few years" "We'll fix that" Kelsier promised.

Watch it, minx," he warned with a lift of his brow. "If you intend to taunt me for every foolish statement I've made in my life, you'll force me to play Rockton and lock you up in my dark, forbidding manor while I have my wicked way with you." That sounds perfectly awful,"she said gazing at the man she loved. "How soon can we start?

When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true too . . . she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived.

Rather than act like the lord of the manor, I would rather behave like a guest. Rather than advance an inch, I would rather retreat a foot.

A minor fief had risen up against their cruel and avaricious lord, with hundreds of people surrounding his Manor house, threatening to burn it to the ground. The panicked nobleman's message for help was answered by the arrival of a single Ranger. Aghast, the nobleman confronted the solitary cowled figure. 'They sent one Ranger?' he said incredulously. 'One man?' 'How many riots do you have?' the Ranger replied.

The prospect of a world that contains neither humans nor Z's is not so terrifying. Nature will take its world back. Animals will frolic and fight. There will be no lord of the manor, which is not such a bad thing, because it seems to me that people have done a pretty poor job of guiding the biosphere for the last few thousand years.

You’re suggesting we burn down Blackthorn Manor?” said Ty, his eyebrows up around his hairline. “Oddly,” Magnus muttered, “you wouldn’t be the first people ever to have that idea.” “Ty, don’t sound so excited,” Livvy said. “Pyromania interests me,” said Ty. “I think you have to burn down several buildings before you can consider yourself to be an actual maniac for pyro,” Emma said. “I think before that you’re just an enthusiast.

The black of the ocean waves was the color of the sorrow in my breast, a sorrow that was never far away and always visible.

Evil men flourish. The righteous suffer. The Lord never promises we won’t—only that He’ll sustain us when the tribulation comes.

Shea! The call was loud, a flood of fear and confusion, an impression of strangling, of darkness and pain. I’m here, Jacques. Come back to me. I need you. She smiled at the demand in his voice; her heart somersaulted at the raw truth in his voice. He never tried to hide anything from her, not even his elemental fear of her leaving him to face the darkness alone. Spoiled brat. She sent it tenderly. There’s no need to sound like the lord of the manor. I’ll be right in. Just come to me. He was more relaxed now, beating back his fear of isolation. I do not want to wake alone.

I was once a man, not a great man, not a saintly man, but a good man, and a man nonetheless.

My life was going exactly where I wanted it to until the Devil showed up.

God himself had sent me away. I was truly now among the damned.

Iona stared at me for a long time. “You are going to leave me a widow before I have a chance to become a bride.

Wait,” I repeated. The darkness vanished, leaving Rhysand in his solid form as he grinned. “Yes?” I raised my chin as high as I could manage. “Just two weeks?” “Just two weeks,” he purred, and knelt before me. “Two teensy, tiny weeks with me every month is all I ask.” “Why? And what are to … to be the terms?” I said, fighting past the dizziness. “Ah,” he said, adjusting the lapel of his obsidian tunic. “If I told you those things, there’d be no fun in it, would there?” I looked at my ruined arm. Lucien might never come, might decide I wasn’t worth risking his life any further, not now that he’d been punished for it. And if Amarantha’s healers cut off my arm … Nesta would have done the same for me, for Elain. And Tamlin had done so much for me, for my family; even if he had lied about the Treaty, about sparing me from its terms, he’d still saved my life that day against the naga, and saved it again by sending me away from the manor. I couldn’t think entirely of the enormity of what I was about to give—or else I might refuse again. I met Rhysand’s gaze. “Five days.” “You’re going to bargain?” Rhysand laughed under his breath. “Ten days.” I held his stare with all my strength. “A week.” Rhysand was silent for a long moment, his eyes traveling across my body and my face before he murmured: “A week it is.” “Then it’s a deal

Then it kissed me—not as a man would kiss a lover, not with tenderness or even passion. This was a kiss that stole the soul of men. Revulsion at this creature’s kiss was instantly replaced by the warmth stealing through my veins, as if my missing blood were being replenished and contrived to heal me. I craved to keep kissing the beast. My entire being awakened to that kiss feeding me ecstasy, feeding me life.

Those piercingly beautiful blue eyes were looking down at him, stupefying him as they met his own, evoking images of sapphire jewels and a starry sky and… Good Lord, was her hair truly the shade of moonbeams?

to think that this was all my own; that I was king and lord of all this country indefensibly, and had a right of possession; and if I could convey it, I might have it in inheritance as completely as any lord of a manor in England.

Daisy gave her a speaking glance, and her sister grinned. “Never fear,” Lillian continued, “eventually we will succeed in infiltrating London society, and then we’ll marry Lord Heavydebts and Lord Shallowpockets, and finally assume our places as ladies of the manor.

I did not choose to be a monster—a shell of a man—half-human, half-fiend. I am a tiefling. I am what I am.

[The wives of powerful noblemen] must be highly knowledgeable about government, and wise – in fact, far wiser than most other such women in power. The knowledge of a baroness must be so comprehensive that she can understand everything. Of her a philosopher might have said: "No one is wise who does not know some part of everything." Moreover, she must have the courage of a man. This means that she should not be brought up overmuch among women nor should she be indulged in extensive and feminine pampering. Why do I say that? If barons wish to be honoured as they deserve, they spend very little time in their manors and on their own lands. Going to war, attending their prince's court, and traveling are the three primary duties of such a lord. So the lady, his companion, must represent him at home during his absences. Although her husband is served by bailiffs, provosts, rent collectors, and land governors, she must govern them all. To do this according to her right she must conduct herself with such wisdom that she will be both feared and loved. As we have said before, the best possible fear comes from love. When wronged, her men must be able to turn to her for refuge. She must be so skilled and flexible that in each case she can respond suitably. Therefore, she must be knowledgeable in the mores of her locality and instructed in its usages, rights, and customs. She must be a good speaker, proud when pride is needed; circumspect with the scornful, surly, or rebellious; and charitably gentle and humble toward her good, obedient subjects. With the counsellors of her lord and with the advice of elder wise men, she ought to work directly with her people. No one should ever be able to say of her that she acts merely to have her own way. Again, she should have a man's heart. She must know the laws of arms and all things pertaining to warfare, ever prepared to command her men if there is need of it. She has to know both assault and defence tactics to insure that her fortresses are well defended, if she has any expectation of attack or believes she must initiate military action. Testing her men, she will discover their qualities of courage and determination before overly trusting them. She must know the number and strength of her men to gauge accurately her resources, so that she never will have to trust vain or feeble promises. Calculating what force she is capable of providing before her lord arrives with reinforcements, she also must know the financial resources she could call upon to sustain military action. She should avoid oppressing her men, since this is the surest way to incur their hatred. She can best cultivate their loyalty by speaking boldly and consistently to them, according to her council, not giving one reason today and another tomorrow. Speaking words of good courage to her men-at-arms as well as to her other retainers, she will urge them to loyalty and their best efforts.

And yet that water went only where the Lord directed it. He sent it from the heavens. He poured it into the oceans. He carved those rivers and streams with the tip of His finger. That same finger had carved her into who she was, able to receive that same life.

You deal with me very frankly, and I thank you for it,' said I. 'I will try on my side to be no less honest. I believe these deep duties may lie upon your lordship; I believe you may have laid them on your conscience when you took the oaths of the high office which you hold. But for me, who am just a plain man--or scarce a man yet--the plain duties must suffice. I can think but of two things, of a poor soul in the immediate and unjust danger of a shameful death, and of the cries and tears of his wife that still tingle in my head. I cannot see beyond, my lord. It's the way I am made. If the country has to fall, it has to fall. And I pray God, if this is wilful blindness, that He may enlighten me before too late.

He’s terrified. Terrified of seeing you in his enemies’ hands. And they know it, too—they know all they have to do to own him would be to get ahold of you.” “You think I don’t know that? But does he honestly expect me to spend the rest of my life in that manor, overseeing servants and wearing pretty clothes?” Lucien watched the ever-young forest. “Isn’t that what all human women wish for? A handsome faerie lord to wed and shower them with riches for the rest of their lives?” I gripped the reins of my horse hard enough that she tossed her head. “Good to know you’re still a prick, Lucien.

I notice you didn’t include a blade with your new attire,” Royce said. “Not even a little jeweled dagger.” “Lords no.” Albert looked appalled. “I don’t fight.” “I thought all nobles learned sword fighting.” Royce looked to Hadrian. “I thought so too.” “Nobles with competent fathers perhaps. I spent my formative years at my aunt’s at Huffington Manor. She held a daily salon, where a dozen noble ladies came to discuss all manner of philosophical topics, like how much they hated their husbands. I’ve never actually held a sword, but I can tie a mean corset and apply face paint like a gold-coin whore.

The real Lord Pembroke wanted to read lurid novels and cuddle on the sofa. All this lord-of-the-manor business was because he was embarrassed by his father’s excesses and anxious about providing for those who would have been cut off without a groat if he hadn’t stepped in to shore up the estate’s finances.

The prospect of a world that contains neither humans nor Z’s is not so terrifying. Nature will take its world back. Animals will frolic and fight. There will be no lord of the manor, which is not such a bad thing, because it seems to me that people have done a pretty poor job of guiding the biosphere for the last few thousand years.

Deprived of his trade unions, collective bargaining and the right to strike, the German worker in the Third Reich became an industrial serf, bound to his master, the employer, much as medieval peasants had been bound to the lord of the manor. The so-called Labor Front, which in theory replaced the old trade unions, did not represent the worker.

They’re a slow-moving lot, reporters. Slothlike. Weighed down by all that righteous indignation about the freedom of the press and the public’s right to know, not to mention the liquid lunches they see as their constant due. Go out now and you’re playing right into their grasping, ink-stained hands.” He cocked an ear to the door. “I’m doing my best to protect your reputation here. It wouldn’t do to have a serving wench caught in a compromising position with the lord of the manor.” “You don’t have the cleavage to make a good serving wench, Eli.

My lady?” He peered briefly around to see that all seemed in order, and confusion immediately covered his face. “Take a dozen men and ride out in search of my husband,” Emma commanded at once. The steward goggled at her. “But, my lady—” “Now, Sebert. Or all will be lost.” Sebert nodded and started to withdraw, then paused and turned back, his gaze moving helplessly to the two men by the fireplace, before flying back to Emma herself. “But my lady, yer husband is dead,” he pointed out miserably. Emma rolled her eyes at that. “Sebert, why can you not be like other stewards and listen at doors?” “I…” Sebert drew himself up indignantly, but Emma continued. “Had you done so, you would be aware that I am to marry Lord Amaury de Aneford. Immediately. Before Lord Fulk’s cousin and aunt can get here and Bertrand can lay claim to the manor and myself.

We welcome our beloved dead." Determined, I lifted my eyelids and searched the room. The feather in Mrs. Thompson's white curls bounced in a draft. Mr. Hunt's whiskers quivered. Lord Marshall sat entirely too near to Mother; his knee must surely be pressed against hers. The candle flickered. Someone cleared their throat. The poodle whined, bored. No spirits. They'd been hounding me all week; the least they could do was show themselves when they were needed. It was just rude otherwise. "Spirits," I snapped. "I said you are welcome here." Colin coughed once. "As long as you mean us no ill," I amended, remembering the surge of the angry spirit at the Whitestone Manor pond.

You have no reason to be sorry for anything, ma petite." Her clenched fist lay over his heart, the three diamonds in her palm. "You think I can't read your body? Feel the heaviness in your mind as you try to shield me? I can't change who I am, not even for you. I know I'm failing you, causing you discomfort." A slow smile curved his mouth. Discomfort. Now,there was a word for it. His hand crushed her hair, ran it through his fingers. "I have never asked you to change, nor would I want you to. You seem to forget that I know you better than anyone. I can handle you." She turned her head so that he could see the silver stars flashing in her blue eyes, a smoldering warning. "You are so arrogant,Gregori, it makes me want to throw things.Do you hear yourself? Handle me? Ha! I try to say I'm sorry for failing you, and you act the lord of the manor. Being born centuries ago when women were chattel does not give you an excuse.

Oh, calm yourself, Lord Farnsworth.” Did she really just say that? To a baron? “I didn’t say you were unattractive, just that you were..” She struggled to find a better way to word what she had said. But there wasn’t one. “…not handsome.

Phelan,” Cam said, looking up with an easy smile, “have you come to see the timber yard?” “Thank you, but I’m here for another reason.” Leo, who was standing near the window, glanced from Christopher’s rumpled attire to Beatrix’s disheveled condition. “Beatrix, darling, have you taken to going off the estate dressed like that?” “Only this once,” she said apologetically. “I was in a hurry.” “A hurry involving Captain Phelan?” Leo’s sharp gaze moved to Christopher. “What do you wish to discuss?” “It’s personal,” Christopher said quietly. “And it concerns your sister.” He looked from Cam to Leo. Ordinarily there would have been no question concerning which one of them to approach. As lord of the manor, Leo would have been the first choice. However, the Hathaways seemed to have settled on an unconventional sharing of roles. “Which one of you should I talk to?” Christopher asked. They pointed to each other and replied at the same time. “Him.

They want the equality of man. They want freedom. You speak truth when you say that they cannot, in sanity, hope to get it—and especially by violence.” “Then they are mad!” “Nay—not mad. Ignorant and desperate and oppressed. They’re tired of paying for unsuccessful wars, they’re tired of serfdom or unfair wages for their labor. They’re tired of eating black bread while the manor lords, baron and abbot alike, eat venison and fat capons. It’s natural, and a change will come in time, I believe.

How dare you give the poor woman trouble over those nasty biscuits! If you made biscuits worth eating, sir, perhaps she wouldn’t throw them to the fish!” He blinked his eyes in astonishment. “Biscuits worth eating? I’ll have you know, madam, that I bake the best biscuit on the high seas!” “That’s not saying much, considering that ship’s biscuits are notoriously awful!” “It’s alright, Louisa, you needn’t defend me—“ Sara began. Louisa just ignored her. “Those biscuits were so hard, I could scarcely choke them down. As for that stew—” “Look here, you disrespectful harpy,” the cook said, punctuating his words with loud taps of his cane. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Silas Drummond’s stew, and I defy any man—or woman—to make a better one!

To be alone, to have few needs, to be unknown, everywhere a foreigner and at home, and to walk grandly and solitarily in conquest of the world. Is not the sturdy vagabond, sitting beside the road, contemplating the wide and open horizon before him, the absolute master of lands, waters, and even the skies? What lord of the manor can rival him in power and opulence? His fiefdom has no limits and his empire no law. No servitude demeans his bearing, no labor bends his spine to the earth, the earth that he possesses and which gives itself to him in its entirety, in goodness and in beauty.

Vampires operate under a form of pyramid scheme,” Bones explained. “Each line is ranked by the strength of its head, or the Master, and every person the Master sires is under the Master’s rule. Feudalism would be another example of it. There you had the lord of the manor, and they were responsible for the welfare of all those on their lands, but in return, their people owed them loyalty and part of their income. Such is the way with vampires, with a few more variations.” This was news to me, and it sounded barbaric. “So. In other words, vampire society is like Amway and a cult rolled into one.

When Derek Abbott was arrested in London, he didn’t care. I still remember the day he came in, sitting there with this look on his face like he was the lord of the manor who’d accidentally wandered into the servants’ quarters. The police weren’t going to get anywhere near him, not in a hundred years!

Phoebe was relieved to discover she would be accompanied by Westcliff's oldest son, Lord Foxhall, whom she had known her entire life. He was a big, boldly handsome man in his twenties, an avid sportsman like his father. As the earl's heir, he had been accorded a viscountcy, but he and Phoebe were far too familiar to stand on ceremony. "Fox," she exclaimed, a wide smile crossing her face. "Cousin Phoebe." He leaned down to kiss her cheek, his dark eyes snapping with lively humor. "It seems I'm your escort. Bad luck for you." "To me it's good luck- how could it be otherwise?" "With all the eligible men present, you should be with one who doesn't remember you as a little girl in pigtails, sliding down one of the banisters at Stony Cross Manor.

Fu Shen rather impatiently said, ...His Honor the Imperial Investigator, coveting my beauty, has abducted me by force and is keeping me locked up in his manor, not permitting me to leave. So for now if anyone else wants to see me, say that I'm staying at Yan Manor to convalesce. "... Lord Yan had been struck so hard by the unjust accusation falling out of the sky that he was seeing stars.

I was in love with Feyre,' Rhys said quietly, 'long before she ever returned the feeling.' Lucien crossed his arms. 'How fortunate that you got what you wanted in the end.' I closed my eyes for a heartbeat. Cassian and Azriel stilled, waiting for the order. 'I will only say this once,' warned the High Lord of the Night Court. Even Lucien flinched. 'I suspected Feyre was my mate before I ever knew she was involved with Tamlin. And when I learned of it... If it made her happy, I was willing to step back.' 'You came to our house and stole her away on her wedding day.' 'I was going to call the wedding off,' I cut in, taking a step toward Lucien. 'You knew it.' Rhysand went on before Lucien could snap a reply. 'I was willing to lose my mate to another male. I was willing to let them marry, if it brought her joy. But what I was not willing to do was let her suffer. To let her fade away into a shadow. And the moment that piece of shit blew apart his study, the moment he locked her in that house...' His wings ripped from him, and Lucien started. Rhys bared his teeth. My limbs turned light, trembling at the dark power curling in the corners of the room. Not fear- never fear of him. But at the shattered control as Rhys snarled at Lucien. 'My mate may one day find it in herself to forgive him. Forgive you. But I will never forget how it felt to sense her terror in those moments.' My cheeks heated, especially as Cassian and Azriel stalked closer, those hazel eyes now filled with a mix of sympathy and wrath. I had never talked about it to them- what had gone on that day Tamlin had destroyed his study, or the day he'd sealed me inside the manor. I'd never asked Rhys if he'd informed them. From the fury rippling from Cassian, the cold rage seeping from Azriel... I didn't think so. Lucien, to his credit, didn't back away a step. From Rhys, or me, or the Illyrians. The Clever Fox Stares Down Winged Death. The painting flashed in my mind. 'So, again, I will say this only once,' Rhys went on, his expression smoothing into lethal calm, dragging me from the colours and light and shadows gathering in my mind. 'Feyre did not dishonour or betray Tamlin. I revealed the mating bond months later- and she gave me hell for it, don't worry. But now that you've found your mate in a similar situation, perhaps you will try to understand how it felt. And if you can't be bothered, then I hope you're wise enough to keep your mouth shut, because the next time you look at my mate with that disdain and disgust, I won't bother to explain it again, and I will rip out your fucking throat.' Rhys said is so mildly that the threat took a second to register. To settle in me like a stone plunked into a pool. Lucien only shifted on his feet. Wary. Considering. I counted the heartbeats, debating how much I'd interfere if he said something truly stupid, when he at last murmured, 'There is a longer story to be told, it seems.

Let the smoky Käll sustain himself on Mars, and Yuko lay rue on Beethoven’s grave. Let the lord of the manor of Rochdale clap his coffin into a canoe and disport himself on the waters. Let Zsa-Zsa sleep on a pillow of haddock in Maria’s cello case. Let Mrs Wessen live to see her thousandth moon. Let Ysobel unknit her forehead. Let not poor Virginie weep. Let all and no things come to pass, for how will I pass these days?

I'll tell you this. I've labored all my life. I've baked and brewed. I've woven, spun, and dyed. I've kept my husband's house and raised his young. And many other things besides. So where was time for holiness? What strength was left for faith? Let monks and nuns and priests have care of that. The dead shall rise? The Lord himself will sit as justicer in manor court? It may be true for all I know. But in the meanwhile bread, beer, work, and rest at night, they're truth enough for me.

The dead die hard, trespassers on the beyond, they must take the place as they find it, the shafts and manholes back into the muck, till such time as the lord of the manor incurs through his long acquiescence a duty of care in respect of them. They are free among the dead by all means, then their troubles are over, their natural troubles. But the debt of nature, that scandalous post-obit on one’s own estate, can no more be discharged by kicking the bucket than descent can be made into the same stream twice. This is a true saying.

To protect them from Hitler’s bombers, the curators secreted Wallace’s and Darwin’s bird skins in unmarked lorries to manors and mansions throughout the English countryside. Among the safe houses was a private museum in the tiny town of Tring, built by one of the richest men in history as a twenty-first-birthday present for his son. Lionel Walter Rothschild would grow up to earn many distinctions: the Right Honorable Lord, Baron de Rothschild, member of Parliament, adulterer, blackmail victim, and one of the most tragically obsessive bird collectors ever to roam the earth.

Well, we can’t have someone pick up the trash. You’ll have tuh wait ’til next week. Typically, as long as everything is bagged up properly, the weight rules are ignored, but you can’t have un-bagged and unboxed materials just lying about. It is dangerous for our workers, Ms. Chambers.” “Yes, Lord knows the dangers and perils to sanitation workers here in Westchester County is high! All over the worldwide news, they interrupt tales of muggings, gang related violence, and grisly murders to break out with stories about a hangnail one of your sanitation engineers received out here on the mean, dangerous streets of Larchmont Manor. It’s merciless mayhem, I tell ya!

Nipple?” I ask, far too enthralled, but she shakes her head. I sit up straight and measure roughly eight inches between my palms. She nods. “No!” I look over to the reserved, standoffish Drew, my eyes automatically dropping to his crotch. “You won’t see it through his jeans, Ava.” Kate chuckles, and I’m off again, too. Uncontrollable, belly clenching, might-pee-my-knickers laughter. Through my tears, I see Kate stick her tongue in her cheek. “I nearly cracked a tooth.” “Please!” I’m falling all over my chair. I’m helpless. “Something funny?” I battle to pull myself together and wipe my eyes, looking up at my Lord of the Sex Manor, who’s staring down at his giggling wife with a bemused look plastered all over his face. “No, nothing.

I have this special license burning a hole in my pocket, so I was thinking we might go find a vicar and use it. Pinter and Freddy can be witnesses.” He looked anxiously at her. “What do you think?” “Don’t you want your family present when we marry? I thought you lordly sorts had to have grand weddings.” “Is that what you want?” In truth, she’d never been one to dream of her wedding day as a brilliant spectacle. Clandestine weddings were always what captured her imagination, complete with a dangerous, brooding fellow and mysterious goings-on. In this instance, she had both. He said, “Let me put it this way: we can spend an untold number of days sneaking around just to steal a kiss, being chaperoned every minute while my sisters and Gran plan the wedding of the century. Or we can marry today and share a bed at the inn tonight like a respectable husband and wife. I’m not keep on waiting, but then, I never am when it comes to you. So what is your opinion in the matter?” She couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “I think you just want to punish your grandmother for her sly tactics by depriving her of the weddings.” He smiled. “Perhaps a little. And God knows my friends are never going to let me live this down. I’m not looking forward to hours of their torment at a wedding breakfast.” He stopped in a little copse where they would be hidden from the street. “But if you want a big wedding, I can endure it.” His expression was solemn as he took her hands in his. “I can endure anything, as long as you marry me. And keep loving me for the rest of your life.” Staring into his earnest face, she felt something flip over in her chest. She stretched up to brush his mouth with hers, and he pulled her in for a long, ardent kiss. “Well?” he said huskily when he was done. “If I had any sense of decency, I would give you a chance to consult with a lawyer about settlements and such, especially since you’ll be coming into some money. But-“ “-you have no sense of decency, I know,” she teased. She tapped her finger against her chin. “Or was that morals you claimed not to have? I can’t remember.” “Watch it, minx,” he warned with a lift of his brow. “If you intend to taunt me for every foolish statement I’ve made in my life, you’ll force me to play Rockton and lock you up in my dark, forbidding manor while I have my wicked way with you.” “That sounds perfectly awful,” she said, gazing at the man she loved. “How soon can we start?

I pulled at the knot again and heard threads begin to pop. “Allow me, Miss Jones,” said Armand, right at my back. There was no gracious way to refuse him. Not with Mrs. Westcliffe there, too. I exhaled and dropped my arms. I stared at the lotus petals in my painting as the new small twists and tugs of Armand’s hands rocked me back and forth. Jesse’s music began to reverberate somewhat more sharply than before. “There,” Armand said, soft near my ear. “Nearly got it.” “Most kind of you, my lord.” Mrs. Westcliffe’s voice was far more carrying. “Do you not agree, Miss Jones?” Her tone said I’d better. “Most kind,” I repeated. For some reason I felt him as a solid warmth behind me, behind all of me, even though only his knuckles made a gentle bumping against my spine. How blasted long could it take to unravel a knot? “Yes,” said Chloe unexpectedly. “Lord Armand is always a perfect gentleman, no matter who or what demands his attention.” “There,” the gentleman said, and at last his hands fell away. The front of the smock sagged loose. I shrugged out of it as fast as I could, wadding it up into a ball. “Excuse me.” I ducked a curtsy and began my escape to the hamper, but Mrs. Westcliffe cut me short. “A moment, Miss Jones. We require your presence.” I turned to face them. Armand was smiling his faint, cool smile. Mrs. Westcliffe looked as if she wished to fix me in some way. I raised a hand instinctively to my hair, trying to press it properly into place. “You have the honor of being invited to tea at the manor house,” the headmistress said. “To formally meet His Grace.” “Oh,” I said. “How marvelous.” I’d rather have a tooth pulled out. “Indeed. Lord Armand came himself to deliver the invitation.” “Least I could do,” said Armand. “It wasn’t far. This Saturday, if that’s all right.” “Um…” “I am certain Miss Jones will be pleased to cancel any other plans,” said Mrs. Westcliffe. “This Saturday?” Unlike me, Chloe had not concealed an inch of ground. “Why, Mandy! That’s the day you promised we’d play lawn tennis.” He cocked a brow at her, and I knew right then that she was lying and that she knew that he knew. She sent him a melting smile. “Isn’t it, my lord?” “I must have forgotten,” he said. “Well, but we cannot disappoint the duke, can we?” “No, indeed,” interjected Mrs. Westcliffe. “So I suppose you’ll have to come along to the tea instead, Chloe.” “Very well. If you insist.” He didn’t insist. He did, however, sweep her a very deep bow and then another to the headmistress. “And you, too, Mrs. Westcliffe. Naturally. The duke always remarks upon your excellent company.” “Most kind,” she said again, and actually blushed. Armand looked dead at me. There was that challenge behind his gaze, that one I’d first glimpsed at the train station. “We find ourselves in harmony, then. I shall see you in a few days, Miss Jones.” I tightened my fingers into the wad of the smock and forced my lips into an upward curve. He smiled back at me, that cold smile that said plainly he wasn’t duped for a moment. I did not get a bow. Jesse was at the hamper when I went to toss in the smock. Before I could, he took it from me, eyes cast downward, no words. Our fingers brushed beneath the cloth. That fleeting glide of his skin against mine. The sensation of hardened calluses stroking me, tender and rough at once. The sweet, strong pleasure that spiked through me, brief as it was. That had been on purpose. I was sure of it.

Phelan,” Cam said, looking up with an easy smile, “have you come to see the timber yard?” “Thank you, but I’m here for another reason.” Leo, who was standing near the window, glanced from Christopher’s rumpled attire to Beatrix’s disheveled condition. “Beatrix, darling, have you taken to going off the estate dressed like that?” “Only this once,” she said apologetically. “I was in a hurry.” “A hurry involving Captain Phelan?” Leo’s sharp gaze moved to Christopher. “What do you wish to discuss?” “It’s personal,” Christopher said quietly. “And it concerns your sister.” He looked from Cam to Leo. Ordinarily there would have been no question concerning which one of them to approach. As lord of the manor, Leo would have been the first choice. However, the Hathaways seemed to have settled on an unconventional sharing of roles. “Which one of you should I talk to?” Christopher asked. They pointed to each other and replied at the same time. “Him.” Cam spoke to Leo. “You’re the viscount.” “You’re the one who usually deals with that sort of thing,” Leo protested. “Yes. But you won’t like my opinion on this one.” “You’re not actually considering giving them your approval, are you?” “Of all the Hathaway sisters,” Cam said equably, “Beatrix is the one most suited to choose her own husband. I trust her judgment.” Beatrix gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Cam.” “What are you thinking?” Leo demanded of his brother-in-law. “You can’t trust Beatrix’s judgment.” “Why not?” “She’s too young,” Leo said. “I’m twenty-three,” Beatrix protested. “In dog years I’d be dead.” “And you’re female,” Leo persisted. “I beg your pardon?” Catherine interrupted. “Are you implying that women have poor judgment?” “In these matters, yes.” Leo gestured to Christopher. “Just look at the fellow, standing there like a bloody Greek god. Do you think she chose him because of his intellect?” “I graduated from Cambridge,” Christopher said acidly. “Should I have brought my diploma?” “In this family,” Cam interrupted, “there is no requirement of a university degree to prove one’s intelligence. Lord Ramsay is a perfect example of how one has nothing to do with the other.” “Phelan,” Leo said, “I don’t intend to be offensive, however--” “It’s something that comes naturally to him,” Catherine interrupted sweetly.

This estate supports hundreds of people. Without it, many of them won’t survive. Tell me you’d be willing to stand face-to-face with one of the tenants and tell him that he has to move his family to Manchester so they can all work in a filthy factory.” “How can the factory be any worse than living on a muddy scrap of farmland?” “Considering urban diseases, crime, slum alleys, and abject poverty,” Devon said acidly, “I’d say it’s considerably worse. And if my tenants and servants all leave, what of the consequences to the village of Eversby itself? What will become of the merchants and businesses once the estate is gone? I have to make a go of this, West.” His brother stared at him as if he were a stranger. “Your tenants and servants.” Devon scowled. “Yes. Who else’s are they?” West’s lips curled in a derisive sneer. “Tell me this, oh lordly one…what do you expect will happen when you fail?” “I can’t think about failure. If I do, I’ll be doomed from the start.” “You’re already doomed. You’ll preen and posture as lord of the manor while the roof caves in and the tenants starve, and I’m damned if I’ll have any part of your narcissistic folly.” “I wouldn’t ask you to,” Davon retorted, heading for the door. “Since you’re usually as drunk as a boiled owl, you’re of no use to me.” “Who the hell do you think you are?” West called after him. Pausing at the threshold, Devon gave him a cold glance. “I’m the Earl of Trenear,” he said, and left the room.

Byron’s diabolism, if indeed it deserves the name, was of a mixed type. He shared, to some extent, Shelley’s Promethean attitude, and the Romantic passion for Liberty; and this passion, which inspired his more political outbursts, combined with the image of himself as a man of action to bring about the Greek adventure. And his Promethean attitude merges into a Satanic (Miltonic) attitude. The romantic conception of Milton’s Satan is semi-Promethean, and also contemplates Pride as a virtue. It would be difficult to say whether Byron was a proud man, or a man who liked to pose as a proud man – the possibility of the two attitudes being combined in the same person does not make them any less dissimilar in the abstract. Byron was certainly a vain man, in quite simple ways: I can’t complain, whose ancestors are there, Erneis, Radulphus – eight-and-forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err) Were their reward for following Billy’s banners. His sense of damnation was also mitigated by a touch of unreality: to a man so occupied with himself and with the figure he was cutting nothing outside could be altogether real. It is therefore impossible to make out of his diabolism anything coherent or rational. He was able to have it both ways, it seems; and to think of himself both as an individual isolated and superior to other men because of his own crimes, and as a naturally good and generous nature distorted by the crimes committed against it by others. It is this inconsistent creature that turns up as the Giaour, the Corsair, Lara, Manfred and Cain; only as Don Juan does he get nearer to the truth about himself. But in this strange composition of attitudes and beliefs the element that seems to me most real and deep is that of a perversion of the Calvinist faith of his mother’s ancestors.

Out of regard for me, if for no other reason, he shouldn't have taken the innocence of a young woman under my protection. It's a matter of respect." Kathleen hoisted herself more fully over him, staring down into his blue eyes. "This," she mocked gently, "from a man who seduced me in nearly every room, stairwell and hay-nook of Eversby Priory. Where was your regard for innocence then?" His frown disappeared. "That was different." "Why, may I ask?" Devon flipped her over, reversing their positions neatly and surprising a giggle from her. "Because," he said huskily, "I wanted you so much..." She writhed and laughed as he unfastened her nightgown. "... and as lord of the manor," he continued, proceeding to strip her naked, "I thought it was time to exercise my droit de seigneur." "As if I were some medieval peasant girl?" she asked, shoving him onto his back, and climbing over him. Grabbing his marauding hands, she tried to pin him down with her entire weight. A deep laugh escaped him. "Love, that won't work. You're no heavier than a butterfly." Clearly enjoying their play, he lay unresisting as she gripped his thick wrists more tightly. "A determined butterfly," he conceded. As he stared up at her, his smile faded, and his eyes darkened to intense blue. "I was a selfish bastard," he said softly. "I shouldn't have seduced you." "I was willing," Kathleen pointed out, inwardly surprised by his remorse. He was changing, she thought, rapidly gaining maturity as he shouldered the responsibilities that had been forced on him so unexpectedly. "I would do it differently now. Forgive me." He paused, frowning in self-reproach. "I wasn't raised to be honorable. It's damned difficult to learn." Kathleen slid her hands over his until their fingers interlaced. "There's nothing to forgive, or regret." Devon shook his head, not allowing her to absolve him. "Tell me how to atone." She bent to brush her lips against his. "Love me," she whispered. With great care, Devon rolled until she was caught beneath him. "Always," he said huskily, and possessed her mouth while his hands slid over her body.

Why else do you think I’m always sweeping my steps when the mail comes through? I want to see who the good Lord brought to town for me to bless.

I can’t think about failure. If I do, I’ll be doomed from the start.” “You’re already doomed. You’ll preen and posture as lord of the manor while the roof caves in and the tenants starve, and I’m damned if I’ll have any part of your narcissistic folly.” “I wouldn’t ask you to,” Davon retorted, heading for the door. “Since you’re usually as drunk as a boiled owl, you’re of no use to me.” “Who the hell do you think you are?” West called after him. Pausing at the threshold, Devon gave him a cold glance. “I’m the Earl of Trenear,” he said, and left the room.

We cry out against the feudal barons who did not permit anyone to settle on the land otherwise than on payment of one quarter of the crops to the lord of the manor; but we continue to do as they did―we extend their system. The forms have changed, but the essence has remained the same. And the workman is compelled to accept the feudal conditions which we call "free contract," because nowhere will he find better conditions. Everything has been appropriated by somebody; he must accept the bargain, or starve.

He was bound to the soil. He could not leave the manor to seek for better conditions of life elsewhere. If he ran away, his lord could obtain an order from a court and have him brought back. When permission was obtained to remain away from the manor as an inhabitant of another vill or of a town, it was only upon payment of a periodical sum, frequently known as "chevage" or head money. He could not sell his cattle without paying the lord for permission. He had practically no standing in the courts of the country. In any suit against his lord the proof of his condition of villainage was sufficient to put him out of court, and his only recourse was the local court of the manor, where the lord himself or his representative presided. Finally, in the eyes of the law, the villain had no property of his own, all his possessions being, in the last resort, the property of his lord. This legal theory, however, apparently had but little application to real life; for in the ordinary course of events the customary tenant, if only by custom, not by law, yet held and bequeathed to his descendants his land and his chattels quite as if they were his own. Serfdom, as it existed in England in the thirteenth century, can hardly be defined in strict legal terms. It can be described most correctly as a condition in which the villain tenant of the manor was bound to the locality and to his services and payments there by a legal bond, instead of merely by an economic bond, as was the case with the small free tenant.

The final, and most important, consideration concerns personal motivation. When I started the partnership I set the motor that regulated the treadmill at “ten points better than the DOW.” I was younger, poorer and probably more competitive. Even without the three previously discussed external factors making for poorer performance, I would still feel that changed personal conditions make it advisable to reduce the speed of the treadmill. I have observed many cases of habit patterns in all activities of life, particularly business, continuing (and becoming accentuated as years pass) long after they ceased making sense. Bertrand Russell has related the story of two Lithuanian girls who lived at his manor subsequent to World War I. Regularly each evening after the house was dark, they would sneak out and steal vegetables from the neighbors for hoarding in their rooms; this despite the fact that food was bountiful at the Russell table. Lord Russell explained to the girls that while such behavior may have made a great deal of sense in Lithuania during the war, it was somewhat out of place in the English countryside. He received assenting nods and continued stealing. He finally contented himself with the observation that their behavior, strange as it might seem to the neighbors, was really not so different from that of the elder Rockefeller. Elementary

I laughed. I’d had much the same reaction when I first laid eyes on Lord Hughes’s unlikely canine. His fluffy white fur was indeed shorn in a way that made him look like an undersized sheep. “It’s a Bedlington terrier.

I lifted the book, firing two words down the bond between us before I blasted my shields up again. Conversation over. 'Like hell it is,' he snarled. A thrum of power caressed my fingers, and then the book sealed shut between my hands. My nails dug into the leather and paper- to no avail. Bastard. Arrogant, presuming bastard. Slowly, I lifted my eyes to him. And I felt... not hot temper- but icy, glittering rage. I could almost feel that ice at my fingertips, kissing my palms. And I swore there was frost coating the book before I hurled it at his head. He shielded fast enough that it bounced away and slid across the marble floor behind us. 'Good,' he said, his breathing a bit uneven. 'What else do you have, Feyre?' Ice melted to flame, and my fingers curled into fists. And the High Lord of the Night Court honestly looked relieved at the sight of it- of that wrath that made me want to rage and burn. A feeling, for once. Not like that hollow cold and silence. And the thought of returning to that manor with the sentries and the patrols and the secrets... I sank back into my chair. Frozen once more. 'Any time you need someone to play with,' Rhys said, pushing the plate toward me on a star-flecked wind, 'whether it's during our marvellous week together or otherwise, you let me know.' I couldn't muster up a response, exhausted from the bit of temper I'd shown. And I realised I was in a free fall with no end. I had been for a while. From the moment I'd stabbed that Fae youth in the heart.

In theory, the lord of the manor sat in judgment over his serfs. But Norman law—brought to England by invaders from France almost three centuries earlier—compelled lords to follow the customs of their predecessors; and in order to find out what those customs were, they had to formally consult twelve men of good standing in the village—a jury. So, in practice, the proceedings often became a negotiation between lord and villagers

In the last years of the Roman empire, a Germanic war-band chieftain, Clovis, based in northern Gaul – Neustria – had declared himself king of the Franks, conquering much of Roman France and Germany, naming his Merovingian dynasty after his grandfather Merovec. Roman order gradually vanished: some cities almost emptied; coins were less used; slavery declined; epidemics raged; bishops and lords, ruling from their manors, amassed the best land and controlled the peasantry, who became servi – serfs. Yet the Merovingians – who marked their sanctity by growing their hair very long, a dynasty of Frankish Samsons – feuded among themselves, splintering into smaller realms. In the 620s, a nobleman named Pepin, who owned estates in Brabant, became mayor of the palace for the king of Austrasia – northern Germany and the Low Countries – founding his own dynasty but it was a dangerous game: his son and son-in-law were executed by Merovingians. In 687, his grandson, also Pepin, united the kingdoms with himself as dux et princeps Francorum under the nominal king.

serra. E dalle estati di Brighton Manor passò

Why don’t I stay?’ Callum said, ‘I can play lord of the manor while you kill the Spectre. Let’s just call her back, have a little chat. No harm, maybe a little Influence. We all get the answers we want, and everyone has unburdened themselves.’ ‘No Influencing her,’ Kyan growled.

Laszlo eyed the Drakefords suspiciously. “I already told you. There. Is. No. Beelzebub!” “Okay,” said Maggie. “Fine. Then why have we heard about him and not Baal?” “You really want to know?” She nodded. The demon looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon. “All right,” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It all began when a certain bigwig—we’ll call him Lite-Brite—didn’t like my dad calling himself Baal Zebul. That means ‘Lord of the Manor,’ which we can all agree is perfectly normal and classy. But Lite-Brite thought Dad was getting too big for his britches. So what does that asshole do? He starts a rumor with the Israelites that my dad’s name is actually Baal Zebub—‘Lord of the Flies’—which might as well be ‘Lord of the Turds.’ Well, everyone thought this was hilarious.” Laszlo assumed a patrician bonhomie. “‘Evening, Baalzebub!’ . . . ‘How goes it, Baalzebub?’ . . . ‘I accidentally swatted one of your subjects, Baalzebub. Hope you don’t mind, old chap’ . . .

As the historian Marc Bloch showed, the “manorial” system, as this feudal arrangement was known, ordered every aspect of medieval communities. The chieftain ruled over his peasants, economically, politically, and socially. Over time, however, the lord of the manor increasingly had to bow, in turn, to the king. The story of the end of feudalism and the triumph of modernization in Europe is in part a story of the weakening of the aristocracy and the rise of strong monarchs. These royals cemented their power by breaking up old feudal estates and granting

Shea! The call was loud, a flood of fear and confusion, an impression of strangling, of darkness and pain. I’m here, Jacques. She sent her answer back so easily it startled her. To reassure him, she tried to fill her mind with every beautiful thing she saw. Come back to me. I need you. She smiled at the demand in his voice; her heart somersaulted at the raw truth in his voice. He never tried to hide anything from her, not even his elemental fear of her leaving him to face the darkness alone. Spoiled brat. She sent it tenderly. There’s no need to sound like the lord of the manor. I’ll be right in. There was no reasonable explanation for the joy flooding her at the touch of his mind lingering possessively in hers. She shied away from looking at that one too closely, too. Just come to me. He was more relaxed now, beating back his fear of isolation. I do not want to wake alone. I do need an occasional break. How was I supposed to know you would wake at this precise moment? She was teasing him. Warmth curled in the pit of his stomach. He had no memory of such a thing before Shea. There was no life before Shea. There had been only ugliness. His world had been torment and hell. He found himself smiling. Of course you should know when I wake. It is your duty. I should have known you would think that way.

Shocked, Raven flung back her head to listen more intently. “The wolves are talking to you! How do I know that, Mikhail? How could I possibly know such a thing?” He ruffled her hair lightly, affectionately. “You hang out with the wrong crowd.” He was rewarded with a bubble of laughter. It tugged at his heart, left him open and vulnerable. “What is this?” she teased. “Lord of the manor picks up seventies slang?” He grinned at her boyishly, mischievously. “Maybe I am the one hanging out with the wrong crowd.” “And maybe there’s hope for you yet.” She kissed his throat, his chin, the stubborn line of his blue-shadowed jaw.

They came to a tall juniper hedge beyond which extended a flagstoned walkway that bordered the side of the manor. As they made their way to an opening of the hedge, they heard a pair of masculine voices engaged in conversation. The voices were not loud. In fact, the strictly moderated volume of the conversation betrayed that something secret— and therefore intriguing— was being discussed. Pausing behind the hedge, Daisy motioned for Evie to be still and quiet. “… doesn’t promise to be much of a breeder…” one of them was saying. The comment was met with a low but indignant objection. “Timid? Holy hell, the woman has enough spirit to climb Mont-Blanc with a pen-knife and a ball of twine. Her children will be perfect hellions.” Daisy and Evie stared at each other with mutual astonishment. Both voices were easily recognizable as those belonging to Lord Llandrindon and Matthew Swift. “Really,” Llandrindon said skeptically. “My impression is that she is a literary-minded girl. Rather a bluestocking.” “Yes, she loves books. She also happens to love adventure. She has a remarkable imagination accompanied by a passionate enthusiasm for life and an iron constitution. You’re not going to find a girl her equal on your side of the Atlantic or mine.” “I had no intention of looking on your side,” Llandrindon said dryly. “English girls possess all the traits I would desire in a wife.” They were talking about her, Daisy realized, her mouth dropping open. She was torn between delight at Matthew Swift’s description of her, and indignation that he was trying to sell her to Llandrindon as if she were a bottle of patent medicine from a street vendor’s cart. “I require a wife who is poised,” Llandrindon continued, “sheltered, restful…” “Restful? What about natural and intelligent? What about a girl with the confidence to be herself rather than trying to imitate some pallid ideal of subservient womanhood?” “I have a question,” Llandrindon said. “Yes?” “If she’s so bloody remarkable, why don’t you marry her?” Daisy held her breath, straining to hear Swift’s reply. To her supreme frustration his voice was muffled by the filter of the hedges. “Drat,” she muttered and made to follow them. Evie yanked her back behind the hedge. “No,” she whispered sharply. “Don’t test our luck, Daisy. It was a miracle they didn’t realize we were here.” “But I wanted to hear the rest of it!” “So did I.” They stared at each other with round eyes. “Daisy…” Evie said in wonder, “… I think Matthew Swift is in love with you.

Dearest Prudence, I have the robin’s feather in my pocket. How did you know I needed token to carry into battle? For the past two weeks I’ve been in a rifle pit, sniping back and forth with the Russians. It’s no longer a cavalry war, it’s all engineers and artillery. Albert stayed in the trench with me, only going out to carry messages up and down the line. During the lulls, I try to imagine being in some other place. I imagine you with your feet propped near the hearth, and your breath sweet with mint tea. I imagine walking through the Stony Cross forests with you. I would love to see some commonplace miracles, but I don’t think I could find them without you. I need your help, Pru. I think you might be my only chance of becoming part of the world again. I feel as if I have more memories of you than I actually do. I was with you on only a handful of occasions. A dance. A conversation. A kiss. I wish I could relive those moments. I would appreciate them more. I would appreciate everything more. Last night I dreamed of you again. I couldn’t see your face, but I felt you near me. You were whispering to me. The last time I held you, I didn’t know who you truly were. Or who I was, for that matter. We never looked beneath the surface. Perhaps it’s better we didn’t--I don’t think I could have left you, had I felt for you then what I do now. I’ll tell you what I’m fighting for. Not for England, nor her allies, nor any patriotic cause. It’s all come down to the hope of being with you. Dear Christopher, You’ve made me realize that words are the most important things in the world. And never so much as now. The moment Audrey gave me your last letter, my heart started beating faster, and I had to run to my secret house to read it in private. I haven’t yet told you…last spring on one of my rambles, I found the oddest structure in the forest, a lone tower of brick and stonework, all covered with ivy and moss. It was on a distant portion of the Stony Cross estate that belongs to Lord Westcliff. Later when I asked Lady Westcliff about it, she said that keeping a secret house was a local custom in medieval times. The lord of the manor might have used it as a place to keep his mistress. Once a Westcliff ancestor actually hid there from his own bloodthirsty retainers. Lady Westcliff said I could visit the secret house whenever I wanted, since it has long been abandoned. I go there often. It’s my hiding place, my sanctuary…and now that you know about it, it’s yours as well. I’ve just lit a candle and set it in a window. A very tiny lodestar, for you to follow home.

Dear Christopher, You’ve made me realize that words are the most important things in the world. And never so much as now. The moment Audrey gave me your last letter, my heart started beating faster, and I had to run to my secret house to read it in private. I haven’t yet told you…last spring on one of my rambles, I found the oddest structure in the forest, a lone tower of brick and stonework, all covered with ivy and moss. It was on a distant portion of the Stony Cross estate that belongs to Lord Westcliff. Later when I asked Lady Westcliff about it, she said that keeping a secret house was a local custom in medieval times. The lord of the manor might have used it as a place to keep his mistress. Once a Westcliff ancestor actually hid there from his own bloodthirsty retainers. Lady Westcliff said I could visit the secret house whenever I wanted, since it has long been abandoned. I go there often. It’s my hiding place, my sanctuary…and now that you know about it, it’s yours as well. I’ve just lit a candle and set it in a window. A very tiny lodestar, for you to follow home. Dearest Prudence, Amid all the noise and men and madness, I try to think of you in your secret house…my princess in a tower. And my lodestar in the window. The things one has to do in war…I thought it would all become easier as time went on. And I’m sorry to say I was right. I fear for my soul. The things I have done, Pru. The things I have yet to do. If I don’t expect God to forgive me, how can I ask you to? Dear Christopher, Love forgives all things. You don’t even need to ask. Ever since you wrote to me about the Argos, I’ve been reading about stars. We’ve loads of books about them, as the subject was of particular interest to my father. Aristotle taught that stars are made of a different matter than the four earthly elements--a quintessence--that also happens to be what the human psyche is made of. Which is why man’s spirit corresponds to the stars. Perhaps that’s not a very scientific view, but I do like the idea that there’s a little starlight in each of us. I carry thoughts of you like my own personal constellation. How far away you are, dearest friend, but no farther than those fixed stars in my soul. Dear Pru, We’re settling in for a long siege. It’s uncertain as to when I’ll have the chance to write again. This is not my last letter, only the last for a while. Do not doubt that I am coming back to you someday. Until I can hold you in my arms, these worn and ramshackle words are the only way to reach you. What a poor translation of love they are. Words could never do justice to you, or capture what you mean to me. Still…I love you. I swear by the starlight…I will not leave this earth until you hear those words from me.

You are such a stick-in-the-mud sometimes, you know that?" My annoyance faded. Elliott, poor man, truly believe what he was saying. He thought life was better when it was organized and structured until all the fun had been squeezed out of it. "Look, one of the things I've learned from life is that you have to grab what you can take, because you never know if it'll be there later. I'm here right now. So are you. And I just bet you if I stick my hands down your pants, you'll be ready for a little fun in no time." His nostrils flared, and his voice took on that haughty lord-of-the-manor tone that made me want to giggle. "I assure you, madam, that I am in full control of my libido. If I did not wish to become aroused by you, I wouldn't." I put my hand on his fly. Just that, no caressing, no stroking, just my palm on his zipper. I could feel him getting hard within seconds. I cocked an eyebrow at him. "As it happens, I want to be aroused," he said with an attempt at dignity. "I have decided that I will, just this once, bend my inviolable rule about not stopping until I am done with my daily quota of writing.

I ask you this. If the Everyman will sing this Song, then why shouldn’t the Everyman make our videos, too?” Yes, of course! Why shouldn’t the Everyman make our videos too? Kanish was describing the business model of Big Tech. Get the user base to create content, which generates eyeballs, which advertisers pay to reach. In exchange, Big Tech shares just enough of the ad revenue with their largest content providers to make it appear as though it’s a viable business model for the rest of us. This is nothing new, mind you. It’s really just a modern spin on Feudalism—the Lord of the Manor exploits us lowly Serfs to work the land in exchange for our own meager sustenance. It sounds so terrible when I put it that way, doesn’t it?

Ryan Sheridan: Lord of the manor. Kim Marshall: lowly serf. I’m cool with that. I need this job.

You are jealous of my niece?” he asked, frowning. “She has a papa, a mama, and an uncle. I have Miss Emmie, who is my friend, but that’s all. I like Lord Amery because he listens and climbs trees, but I only want to borrow him.” “You want to borrow him for what?” the earl pressed, shifting her again but keeping an arm around her as he did. “To be my papa,” Winnie said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. “He is not Rose’s real papa, so I thought she might not mind if he wasn’t mine either.” “I see.” The earl’s frown was becoming thoughtful, but Winnie didn’t think he was seeing much at all. The earl was not the quickest fellow to her mind, but he had horses, and he was bringing Miss Emmie to the manor. And he had not ever, ever lied—yet. A large male hand began to make slow circles on her back, and Winnie felt her eyes wanting to close. “I will send your letter, Winnie, but you must help me write mine.” Winnie sighed, leaned against the earl’s chest, and let her lashes flutter down. “I’ll help,” she said. “Lord Amery says Rose likes stories about her real papa. He was Lord Victor. I don’t know any.” “My letter might go something like this,” the earl began, his voice a soothing rumble in the ear Winnie lay against his chest. “Dear Rose, Your papa has come to visit, and we are very glad to see him. By we, I include in my household Miss Bronwyn Farnum, a very pretty and intelligent little girl who is kind to animals and nimble at climbing trees. Your papa told me she reminds him of you, but I saw Winnie first, and he cannot have her. She is mine now, though while your papa is here, Winnie will be all that is polite and friendly to him. I hope Sir George is doing well and not eating too much summer grass, and I hope your brother and mother are thriving. You must look after them until I can visit this fall. Uncle Devlin.” “Devlin?” Winnie murmured through a sleepy smile. “My mama named me Devlin. Like Miss Farnum is Emmaline.” “And I am Bronwyn, at least to Miss Emmie.” Winnie nodded, eyes closing again. “I don’t suck my thumb anymore.” She yawned and felt her seat rising as the earl came to his feet. “Should I get down?” she asked, blinking. “Hush. I’m just moving to a rocking chair, and you are just going to sleep.” ***

Some part of me still can’t quite believe I sleep here, wear £400 suede trainers, drive a James Bond car – a birthday present from Francesca. That I wake up every morning in this place, like some latter-day Lord of the Manor. I’m such a fucking fraud.

The south has always been a monarchy in some form or another. Everybody thinks they're the king of something here. People, land business. That's why you'd hear them talk about their manors and their birthrights and societies all of them, carrying on like royals in court. having balls and cotillions while people was going off to war. Wouldn't be the first time some fool in Alabama claimed themselves lord of everything.

But it was always you, I think as I look at him. Always.

I wanted to show you this grotto because it’s romantic and beautiful. I also wanted to let you know that this grotto is ours.” Now I can barely hear anything over the pounding of my heart. “Ours?” I manage to ask. “I have never met another woman who I wanted to bring here,” Nicholas confesses. “Because whenever I came here, I pictured you. You were in my heart. I might not be the best at saying what I feel, but I can show you. I want you to know this place is only for us. Nobody else, Amelia. Nobody but you.” His face dissolves through my tears. Nicholas is telling me everything without saying all the words.

I’m here for this,” I say, brushing my fingertips on his chest, feeling his heart beat underneath my hand. “I’m here for the laughter. For the conversations. For sparring over politics or peacocks. But I’m also here for learning who you are now. I don’t want to know only the good bits. I don’t want everything to be fun. I want to be here for you when you struggle. When you’re frustrated. I’m here for all of this, Nicholas. Because this makes us real.

I will find a way to make you brave enough to speak what is in your heart. I will help you fight for your dreams. I won’t stop until you realise them.

They were close enough that she could finally see him clearly. Her eyes took in the sight of the Scot, standing tall in full Highland dress. “Oh, delightful,” she muttered to herself. She was at her worst, with seaweed hair streaming water, while Wren had apparently decided to put on his Sunday best. And didn’t he look absolutely magnificent! If her heart had not already been doing troublesome things before, it was pounding in brazen excitement as she looked at him now. This was her husband. Dear Lord. This was her husband. He was always a very striking man. The cleft of his chin. His sturdy Roman nose. The softness of his dark, sooty lashes over those gorgeous blue eyes. His height, his breadth, his width. His girth? Briar almost giggled. Shush, she told herself. But now? Gracious, he was unbearably handsome. There was something about a man in a kilt. Especially the way Wren was wearing it. The dark green Renfrew plaid, shot through with its strands of red and white and gold, was already a lovely thing. Against Wren's form, contrasted against his dark hair, it was a god's finery. Every pleat, every fold fitting his leanly muscled physique. She swallowed hard, then took another step.

Sebastian Holt-Carey: future sixth Viscount Holt-Carey. The lord of the manor. Quick-witted and bighearted, with a taste for glam and goth and boys who liked glam and goth.

Now he’s marrying Gertrude, he fancies a long line of his heirs being lords of the manor here.” Roger sniffed. “Suddenly it’s sacred ground and to be protected at all costs.” “But he already has a title,” said Jasmina. “A Scottish title isn’t really the same thing at all,” the Major said.

But my parents who died in the fire, they...they were part of a noble family in England. The family has always owned the Rockford Manor in Oxfordshire, which is a mansion that includes acres of land, plus a local village where people live and farm---" "Wait, noble? Do you mean like royalty?" Zoey interrupts, her eyes wide. "No, no. But in England there's a system called the peerage---dukes and duchesses, earls and countesses---and they're ranked just below royalty. My dad was the younger son of the Duke of Wickersham, which made him a lord and my mom a lady." Carole and Keith sit frozen, listening to me with a look of dread in their eyes. "So what does that make you?" Zoey asks breathlessly. "Well, when my parents were alive, it meant that I was treated a certain way just because I was part of this family of dukes and duchesses. But then after the fire, the line of succession changed---everything changed. My first cousin, Lucia, became next in line to inherit Rockford Manor and the title. So she would have been the Duchess of Wickersham." I swallow hard. "But she died in an accident last year---which I didn't even know about until today." My hands shake as I speak, and I can't look at Keith and Carole, unable to grasp how they could have kept this from me. "That's awful! But what does it mean for you?" Zoey presses. "Her death left me next in line after my grandfather. And he passed away last month---which I was also unaware of." This time I'm able to look at Carole and Keith, shooting them a withering glare. Zoey's mouth hangs open. "That means you're...you're a...?" "Yeah. You're looking at the new Duchess of Wickersham and owner of Rockford Manor.

How bad was it?' I asked quietly. 'You saw your room. He trashed it, the study, his bedroom. He- he killed the sentries who'd been on guard. After he got the last bit of information from them. He executed them in front of everyone in the manor.' My blood chilled. 'You didn't stop him.' 'I tried. I begged him for mercy. He didn't listen. He couldn't listen.' 'The sentries didn't try to stop him, either?' 'They didn't dare, Feyre, he's a High Lord. He's a different breed.

I was in love with Feyre,' Rhys said quietly, 'long before she ever returned the feeling.' Lucien crossed his arms. 'How fortunate that you got what you wanted in the end.' I closed my eyes for a heartbeat. Cassian and Azriel stilled, waiting for the order. 'I will only say this once,' warned the High Lord of the Night Court. Even Lucien flinched. 'I suspected Feyre was my mate before I ever knew she was involved with Tamlin. And when I learned of it... If it made her happy, I was willing to step back.' 'You came to our house and stole her away on her wedding day.' 'I was going to call the wedding off,' I cut in, taking a step toward Lucien. 'You knew it.' Rhysand went on before Lucien could snap a reply. 'I was willing to lose my mate to another male. I as willing to let them marry, if it brought her joy. But what I was not willing to do was let her suffer. To let her fade away into a shadow. And the moment that piece of shit blew apart his study, the moment he locked her in that house...' His wings ripped from him, and Lucien started. Rhys bared his teeth. My limbs turned light, trembling at the dark power curling in the corners of the room. Not fear- never fear of him. But at the shattered control as Rhys snarled at Lucien. 'My mate may one day find it in herself to forgive him. Forgive you. But I will never forget how it felt to sense her terror in those moments.' My cheeks heated, especially as Cassian and Azriel stalked closer, those hazel eyes now filled with a mix of sympathy and wrath. I had never talked about it to them- what had gone on that day Tamlin had destroyed his study, or the day he'd sealed me inside the manor. I'd never asked Rhys if he'd informed them. From the fury rippling from Cassian, the cold rage seeping from Azriel... I didn't think so. Lucien, to his credit, didn't back away a step. From Rhys, or me, or the Illyrians. The Clever Fox Stares Down Winged Death. The painting flashed in my mind. 'So, again, I will say this only once,' Rhys went on, his expression smoothing into lethal calm, dragging me from the colours and light and shadows gathering in my mind. 'Feyre did not dishonour or betray Tamlin. I revealed the mating bond months later- and she gave me hell for it, don't worry. But now that you've found your mate in a similar situation, perhaps you will try to understand how it felt. And if you can't be bothered, then I hope you're wise enough to keep your mouth shut, because the next time you look at my mate with that disdain and disgust, I won't bother to explain it again, and I will rip out your fucking throat.' Rhys said is so mildly that the threat took a second to register. To settle in me like a stone plunked into a pool. Lucien only shifted on his feet. Wary. Considering. I counted the heartbeats, debating how much I'd interfere if he said something truly stupid, when he at last murmured, 'There is a longer story to be told, it seems.

I don’t know why the Duchess would tell you that. The only Maiden I have met is you,” he answered, and I could feel the hot, acidic burn of anger radiating from him. “I don’t even know if there truly was another Maiden.” I… I had not considered the possibility that there had been no other Maiden. That could explain why there was nothing written about her, not even a name. But for her to not exist at all? “I have a lot of blood on my hands, Poppy. Sometimes, so much that I don’t think they’ll ever be clean. So much that I don’t know if I ever want them to be.” My gaze shot to his. “And I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about me—about the Dark One. Some of it is true. I kill the Ascended every chance I get, in Carsodonia and in every city I’ve visited. And, yes, I do find unique ways to end their lives. I am drenched in their blood.” Skin chilled, I was unable to look away. “You were responsible for Goldcrest Manor—Lord Everton?” “Lord Everton was not alive when I left the city of Three Rivers. Nor were any of the mortals who aided him when it came to his penchant for feeding on young boys—a predilection that went beyond that. And

When I heard, when my father heard … I wasn’t wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin’s father and brothers. I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot—to the manor. I slew Tamlin’s brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord’s bedroom—he was dead. And my father … my father had killed Tamlin’s mother as well.” I couldn’t stop shaking my head. “My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren’t the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin’s room.” I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t breathe as Rhys said, “I tried to stop him. He didn’t listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn’t … After all the death, I was done. I didn’t care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he’d come to kill me because he didn’t want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us—smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn’t even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow. “I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord—and then I ran.

Beyond the possibility of disturbing the monks within the chapel, he said, “It’s a very simple idea. You recall the Bible, and the story of Gethsemane, where Our Lord waited out the hours before his trial and crucifixion, and his friends, who should have borne him company, all fell fast asleep?” “Oh,” I said, understanding all at once. “And he said ‘Can you not watch with me one hour?’ So that’s what you’re doing—watching with him for that hour—to make up for it.” I liked the idea, and the darkness of the chapel suddenly seemed inhabited and comforting. “Oui, madame,” he agreed. “Very simple. We take it in turns to watch, and the Blessed Sacrament on the altar here is never left alone.” “Isn’t it difficult, staying awake?” I asked curiously. “Or do you always watch at night?” He nodded, a light breeze lifting the silky brown hair. The patch of his tonsure needed shaving; short bristly hairs covered it like moss. “Each watcher chooses the time that suits him best. For me, that is two o’clock in the morning.” He glanced at me, hesitating, as though wondering how I would take what he was about to say. “For me, in that moment …” He paused. “It’s as though time has stopped. All the humors of the body, all the blood and bile and vapors that make a man; it’s as though just at once all of them are working in perfect harmony.” He smiled. His teeth were slightly crooked, the only defect in his otherwise perfect appearance. “Or as though they’ve stopped altogether. I often wonder whether that moment is the same as the moment of birth, or of death. I know that its timing is different for each man … or woman, I suppose,” he added, with a courteous nod to me. “But just then, for that fraction of time, it seems as though all things are possible. You can look across the limitations of your own life, and see that they are really nothing. In that moment when time stops, it is as though you know you could undertake any venture, complete it and come back to yourself, to find the world unchanged, and everything just as you left it a moment before. And it’s as though …” He hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing words. “As though, knowing that everything is possible, suddenly nothing is necessary.” “But … do you actually do anything?” I asked. “Er, pray, I mean?” “I? Well,” he said slowly, “I sit, and I look at Him.” A wide smile stretched the fine-drawn lips. “And He looks at me.

It’s a very simple idea. You recall the Bible, and the story of Gethsemane, where Our Lord waited out the hours before his trial and crucifixion, and his friends, who should have borne him company, all fell fast asleep?” “Oh,” I said, understanding all at once. “And he said ‘Can you not watch with me one hour?’ So that’s what you’re doing—watching with him for that hour—to make up for it.” I liked the idea, and the darkness of the chapel suddenly seemed inhabited and comforting. “Oui, madame,” he agreed. “Very simple. We take it in turns to watch, and the Blessed Sacrament on the altar here is never left alone.” “Isn’t it difficult, staying awake?” I asked curiously. “Or do you always watch at night?” He nodded, a light breeze lifting the silky brown hair. The patch of his tonsure needed shaving; short bristly hairs covered it like moss. “Each watcher chooses the time that suits him best. For me, that is two o’clock in the morning.” He glanced at me, hesitating, as though wondering how I would take what he was about to say. “For me, in that moment …” He paused. “It’s as though time has stopped. All the humors of the body, all the blood and bile and vapors that make a man; it’s as though just at once all of them are working in perfect harmony.” He smiled. His teeth were slightly crooked, the only defect in his otherwise perfect appearance. “Or as though they’ve stopped altogether. I often wonder whether that moment is the same as the moment of birth, or of death. I know that its timing is different for each man … or woman, I suppose,” he added, with a courteous nod to me. “But just then, for that fraction of time, it seems as though all things are possible. You can look across the limitations of your own life, and see that they are really nothing. In that moment when time stops, it is as though you know you could undertake any venture, complete it and come back to yourself, to find the world unchanged, and everything just as you left it a moment before. And it’s as though …” He hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing words. “As though, knowing that everything is possible, suddenly nothing is necessary.” “But … do you actually do anything?” I asked. “Er, pray, I mean?” “I? Well,” he said slowly, “I sit, and I look at Him.” A wide smile stretched the fine-drawn lips. “And He looks at me.

I said to him at last, 'I don't want your damn pity.' 'It's not pity. Tamlin said I shouldn't tell you-' He winced a bit. 'I'm not made of glass. If the naga attacked you, I deserve to know-' 'Tamlin is my High Lord. He gives an order, I follow it.' 'You didn't have that mentality when you worked around his commands to send me to see the Suriel.' And I'd nearly died. 'I was desperate then. We all were. But now- now we need order, Feyre. We need rules, and rankings, and order, if we're going to stand a chance of rebuilding. So what he says goes. I am the first one the others look to- I set the example. Don't ask me to risk the stability of this court by pushing back. Not right now. He's giving you as much free rein as he can.' I forced a steady breath to fill my too-tight lungs. 'For all that you refuse to interact with Ianthe, you certainly sound a great deal like her.' He hissed, 'You have no idea how hard it is for him to even let you off the estate grounds. He's under more pressure than you realise.' 'I know exactly how much pressure he endures. And I didn't realise I'd become a prisoner.' 'You're not-' He clenched his jaw. 'That's now how it is and you know it.' 'He didn't have any trouble letting me hunt and wander on my own when I was a mere human. When the borders were far less safe.' 'He didn't care for you the way he does now. And after what happened Under the Mountain...' The words clanged in my head, along my too-tense muscles. 'He's terrified. Terrified of seeing you in his enemies' hands. And they know it, too- they know all they have to do to own him would be to get ahold of you.' 'You think I don't know that? But does he honestly expect me to spend the rest of my life in that manor, overseeing servants and wearing pretty clothes?' Lucien watched the ever-young forest. 'Isn't that what all human women wish for? A handsome faerie lord to wed and shower them with riches for the rest of their lives?' I gripped the reins of my horse hard enough that she tossed her head. 'Good to know you're still a prick, Lucien.' His metal eye narrowed. 'Tamlin is a High Lord. You will be his wife. There are traditions and expectations you must uphold. We must uphold, in order to present a solid front that is healed from Amarantha and willing to destroy any foes who try to take what is ours again.

Rhys smiled a bit, but the amusement died as he said, 'Tamlin was younger than me- born when the War started. But after the War, when he'd matured, we got to know each other at various court functions. He...' Rhys clenched his jaw. 'He seemed decent for a High Lord's son. Better than Beron's brood at the Autumn Court. Tamlin's brothers were equally as bad, though. Worse. And they knew Tamlin would take the title one day. And to a half-breed Illyrian who'd had to prove himself, defend his power, I saw what Tamlin went through... I befriended him. Sought him out whenever I was able to get away from the war camps or court. Maybe it was pity, but... I taught him some Illyrian techniques.' 'Did anyone know?' ... 'Cassian and Azriel knew,' Rhys went on. 'My family knew. And disapproved.' His eyes were chips of ice. 'But Tamlin's father was threatened by it. By me. And because he was weaker than both me and Tamlin, he wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't. My mother and sister were to travel to the Illyrian war-camp to see me. I was supposed to meet them halfway, but I was busy training a new unit and decided to stay.' My stomach turned over and over and over, and I wished I had something to lean against as Rhys said, 'Tamlin's father, brothers, and Tamlin himself set out into the Illyrian wilderness, having heard from Tamlin- from me- where my mother and sister would be, that I had plans to see them. I was supposed to be there. I wasn't. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.' I began shaking my head, eyes burning. I didn't know what I was trying to deny, or erase, or condemn. 'It should have been me,' he said, and I understood- understood what he'd said that day I'd wept before Cassian in the training pit. 'They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river- to the nearest camp. Tamlin's father kept their wings as trophies. I'm surprised you didn't see them pinned in the study.' I was going to vomit; I was going to fall to my knees and weep. ... Rhys merely continued. 'When I heard, when my father heard... I wasn't wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin's father and brothers, I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot- to the manor. I slew Tamlin's brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord's bedroom- he was dead. And my father... my father had killed Tamlin's mother as well.' I couldn't stop shaking my head. 'My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren't the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin's room.' I couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe as Rhys said, 'I tried to stop him. He didn't listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn't... After all the death, I was done. I didn't care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he'd come to kill me because he didn't want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us- smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn't even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow.' 'I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.' He'd murdered Rhysand's family. The High Lord I'd loved- he'd murdered his friend's family, and when I'd asked how his family died, he'd merely told me a rival court had done it. Rhysand had done it, and- 'He didn't tell you any of that.

Rhys smiled a bit, but the amusement died as he said, 'Tamlin was younger than me- born when the War started. But after the War, when he'd matured, we got to know each other at various court functions. He...' Rhys clenched his jaw. 'He seemed decent for a High Lord's son. Better than Beron's brood at the Autumn Court. Tamlin's brothers were equally as bad, though. Worse. And they knew Tamlin would take the title one day. And to a half-breed Illyrian who'd have to prove himself, defend his power, I saw what Tamlin went through... I befriended him. Sought him out whenever I was able to get away from the war camps or court. Maybe it was pity, but... I taught him some Illyrian techniques.' 'Did anyone know?' ... 'Cassian and Azriel knew,' Rhys went on. 'My family knew. And disapproved.' His eyes were chips of ice. 'But Tamlin's father was threatened by it. By me. And because he was weaker than both me and Tamlin, he wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't. My mother and sister were to travel to the Illyrian war-camp to see me. I was supposed to meet them halfway, but I was busy training a new unit and decided to stay.' My stomach turned over and over and over, and I wished I had something to lean against as Rhys said, 'Tamlin's father, brothers, and Tamlin himself set out into the Illyrian wilderness, having heard from Tamlin- from me- where my mother and sister would be, that I had plans to see them. I was supposed to be there. I wasn't. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.' I began shaking my head, eyes burning. I didn't know what I was trying to deny, or erase, or condemn. 'It should have been me,' he said, and I understood- understood what he'd said that day I'd wept before Cassian in the training pit. 'They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river- to the nearest camp. Tamlin's father kept their wings as trophies. I'm surprised you didn't see them pinned in the study.' I was going to vomit; I was going to fall to my knees and weep. ... Rhys merely continued. 'When I heard, when my father heard... I wasn't wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin's father and brothers, I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot- tot he manor. I slew Tamlin's brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord's bedroom- he was dead. And my father... my father had killed Tamlin's mother as well.' I couldn't stop shaking my head. 'My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren't the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin's room.' I couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe as Rhys said, 'I tried to stop him. He didn't listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn't... After all the death, I was done. I didn't care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he'd come to kill me because he didn't want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us- smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn't even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow.' 'I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.' He'd murdered Rhysand's family. The High Lord I'd loved- he'd murdered his friend's family, and when I'd asked how his family died, he'd merely told me a rival court had done it. Rhysand had done it, and- 'He didn't tell you any of that.

So the poor wretches swarm over the baron’s lands, making roads, draining marshes, building villages. In nine years he begins to tax them. Five years later he increases the rent. Then he doubles it. The peasant accepts these new conditions because he cannot find better ones elsewhere; and little by little, with the aid of laws made by the barons, the poverty of the peasant becomes the source of the landlord’s wealth. And it is not only the lord of the manor who preys upon him. A whole host of usurers swoop down upon the villages, multiplying as the wretchedness of the peasants increases. That is how things went in the Middle Ages. And to-day is it not still the same thing?

It seems the only sin Patrick could be talking about is homicide. Perhaps in a moment of rage or carelessness, the young Patrick impulsively killed one of the slaves who worked the family’s lands. He could get away with it: after all, he was the son of the lord of the manor. But as time went on—and he found himself in the position of slave, his heart changed by the love of God—the gravity of his crime dawned on him.

Antipatriot sentiments were shared by a wide variety of people across a broad social spectrum. In New York, ironically, some of those who opposed the Revolution were poor tenant farmers from the 160,000-acre Livingston Manor in the Hudson Valley. Robert Livingston, Jr., lord of the manor, was a Whig Revolutionary—not because of deep philosophical convictions, but because his opponents in New York politics were all Tories. Livingston’s tenants, according to historian Staughton Lynd, saw in the Revolution a chance to oppose their Lord and possibly take possession of the land they worked.