#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8
#Aroosteronlycrowswhenheseesthelight


“Thee is a rooster, William,” Rachel said, shaking her head mournfully. “I saw this in thee before, but now I know it for certain.”

“A rooster,” he repeated coldly, brushing dirt from his sleeve. “Indeed. A vain, crowing, gaudy sort of fellow—that’s what you think me?”

Her brows went up. They were not the level brows of classic beauty; they quirked up at the ends, even when her face was at rest, giving her a look of interested intelligence. When she was _not_ at rest, they slanted with a sharp, wicked sort of look. They did this for an instant now, but then relaxed. A little.

“No,” she said. “Has thee ever kept chickens, William?”

“No,” he said, examining the hole torn in the elbow of his coat, the hole ripped in the shirt beneath, and the bloody scrape upon his bare elbow. Bloody hell, someone had come close to taking his arm off with a knife. “What with one thing and another, my acquaintance with chickens has been limited largely to breakfast. Why?”

“Why, a rooster is a creature of amazing courage,” Rachel said, rather reproachful. “He will throw himself into the face of an enemy, even knowing he will die in the attack, and thus buy his hens time to escape.”

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