A RESTLESS CITY. A DARK PROPHECY. A GOD WAITING TO BE BORN.
Amberes teeters on a knife-edge. The return of King Francisco brings chaos and resentment, while deep inside the Imperial Temple, the ambitious Inquisitor Tiberius is plotting the downfall of the divine.
When the goddess of Amberes selects Lyta's beloved Sylvian as her Chosen, he must keep the peace in a city lurching headlong into outright revolution, forcing yet another wedge between the pair. But Lyta has worries of her own. From the unnatural shine in her brother eyes and the glow on his skin, she can guess where the thing that crawled out of the Nether has taken refuge. As Kit struggles to keep a fragile grip on his mind, he is drawn into Guild politics and the familiar siren call of sedition.
As Lyta tries desperately to hold her patchwork family and her world together, a dark prophecy about two siblings heralds the coming of a newborn god, a god whose rising could bring about the end of Amberes itself.
At the heart of it all is a long-forgotten ritual. A ritual that starts with the bell, the book and the candle. Bringing all three together will take the heist to end all heists.
Tropes: Divine magic 💫 Childhood friends to enemies...to lovers 💖 Second chance romance ❤️🩹 Alt History Renaissance 📜 Found family 🫂
READERS LOVE THE FERAL GODS TRILOGY 'SIX OF CROWS meets THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA, with just a hint of A DARKER SHADE OF MAGIC, with a charm and edge that is all Long's own' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'I'm fully on board for more adventures with Lyta and crew . . . For fans of Solo, The Princess Bride, Ocean's Eight and Eleven, and anyone looking for a wonderful book worthy of heists' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'This was EXCELLENT' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'I especially loved the characters. They multi-faceted, complex people and I enjoyed reading from all three POVs' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Such a fun, 16th century inspired heist and state-vs-religion fantasy' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'I read this as the BFS book club read for January, and I was absolutely bowled over by it. Long takes her love of the history of old books, particularly the Plantin Polyglot Bible, and 16th Century Antwerp and delivers a sumptuous fantasy story' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
AUTHORS LOVE THE FERAL GODS TRILOGY 'Sweeps you away with magic books, gods, and a gorgeous second-chance romance. This book is golden!' M.A. KUZNIAR 'History and enchantment woven in a seamless, intricate tapestry' Sarah Rees Brennan 'Intricately plotted and vividly imagined, The Book of Gold snatched me away to a dangerous, decadent city populated by thieves and kings; scholars and gods' Lyra Selene
Release date:
November 19, 2026
Publisher:
Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages:
320
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Mattias Haldevar – spice trader, fence, former burglar, deceased
Rhea Cornellis – Lyta and Kit’s mother, deceased
Prester Alaric –Vicar of the Seven Churches, High Priest at the Temple of Lost Gods
Florrie Stone – custodian of the Temple of Lost Gods, resident of the Rookery, deceased
Etienne du Lac – landlord of The Rack of Lamb Tavern in the Rookery, relic thief
Thomas Charnock – alchemist from Albion, imprisoned
Nils Warend – cobbler
Florian Loewe – constable in the city watch
Joris Groen – constable in the city watch
Tijs Straeten – prison guard in Old Steen
Chapter One
Lyta
Amberes, trade capital of the Western world, crossroad of empires, city of riches and rags, settled slowly into spring, the winter having lingered far too long. The return of the king, Francisco of Aragón, León, Castille and the Greater Brabantine, just over a month ago, hadn’t heralded celebrations. There was more joy in the resumption of trade and the scramble of ships back in port, bringing spices and silks from the east, sugar from Madeira, finely worked silver from Navarre, and ivory, gold and those fiery peppers from North Africa that were all the rage in the city with this new season.
The city chafed under Francisco’s yoke and he didn’t seem inclined to move on. It was vexing, not only to Lyta Cornellis. Used to exercising their own rule, more or less, the Council of Amberes attempted to shift around this new reality, with the guilds trying to accommodate the council, and the trade houses becoming nervous.
And the people of Amberes? They paid for it.
In money, in service, in new laws and restrictions.
Lyta pulled a sheet of crisp linen-heavy paper from the line and read the words printed there in that beautiful font wasted on the endless commands issuing from the palace and the council.
Kit had been printing a lot of city ordinances and royal diktats of late. There was good money in it and when Kit was printing anything he was happy. It seemed to be the one comfort he had these days. When he was himself.
Increased fines for assembly of groups larger than ten in public areas, by order of His Majesty, Francisco, King of Castille, León, Aragón and the Greater Brabantine.
Well, that didn’t bode well.
She couldn’t be bothered to read the full thing. Kit had used the good paper again. She knew he hated to use cheap materials, but for this nonsense? Honestly.
‘What’s this?’ she asked her brother.
Kit winced and took it from her before she could damage it, his hands always gentle. He smoothed out the sheet, frowning at the slight crease she had inadvertently introduced and set it aside on the worktop. Out of her reach.
It was late. His workers had gone home, their daily tasks finished. Hers had barely started.
‘The king has taken against public meetings. Doesn’t want people getting ideas.’
Lyta glanced deliberately around the printshop, where various pamphlets, books and the like were in various stages of preparation. There was an old manuscript sitting open right there, alongside a handwritten translation that Kit was in the process of typesetting.
‘Dangerous things, ideas.’ She shifted her attention from the translation to the original. ‘Is this Latin?’
He got that shifty look instantly. ‘Old Latin, pre-Imperial. They had a republic, you know? Before the August One rose to dominance. When they had all kinds of gods. And ideas.’
She made a face. She’d heard about that. It hadn’t ended well. A lot of murders, a lot of blood. They’d had as many gods as Amberes had once had. The August Imperator had killed them all, hunted them down, first across his own lands and then across the whole continent. He was all-powerful there, the God-Emperor of Caput Mundi.
Kit leaned over her shoulder, brushing his fingertips along the page of the bound manuscript. ‘Ben translated it for me. Ages ago. It was one of the key texts in his study of the divine. I always meant to print it but . . . well, there was so much to do.’ She tried to ignore the shudder of pain that always went through his body at the mention of Ben Alvarez.
‘Who wrote it originally?’
‘His name was Vergellius. He had such a way with words, a true poet, but Ben said his understanding of divinity was revolutionary. Look at this.’
His finger paused over a few words in Latin. Lyta squinted at them. Her Latin was, admittedly, terrible. ‘Deos habemus nostros. The gods, we have, ourselves?’
Kit gave a brief but amused laugh.
‘We have our own gods. Or you could translate it as to think into being, to make or create, or even to compel. It’s a subtle verb, habere. The order is interesting as well, the emphasis is on We, the people, not the god, having it at the end, you see?’ She didn’t but she wasn’t about to admit that. ‘He believed that the gods needed us as much as we needed them. Maybe more. So in essence, we create gods through belief and faith. We make the gods we want or deserve.’
‘Sucks to be a citizen of Caput Mundi then,’ she told him. ‘Their god’s a monster through and through. What happened to him? This poet?’
Kit closed the book, his hand lingering over the cover like a caress. ‘He was executed. I guess they didn’t like people getting ideas back then either.’
‘Yes, where on earth would people be getting ideas?’ she replied flatly and glared at the printshop again, with all its sheets of paper, all those ever so dangerous words.
Kit’s smile turned bleak. ‘Where are you going this late?’
Well, that was just rude.
‘Oh, you know . . .’ She let that trail off and hoped the smile was innocent enough.
‘That’s the problem, Lyta. I don’t.’
‘Out.’
‘Where? With who?’
‘Nowhere and no one. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.’
‘They’re talking about introducing a curfew.’ He sighed.
Lyta shook her head at that absurdity. ‘In Amberes? Good luck with that.’
He wasn’t amused. ‘Try to stay out of trouble.’
‘I always do.’
They both knew that was a lie.
Kit rubbed his chest absently. She’d seen him do it on and off ever since the Solstice, right where he bore the scar from the gladius. The same blade that had stolen Eninn from her. The thought brought a pang of guilt. Kit never spoke about it, but he didn’t have to. His eyes were full of ghosts, when they weren’t full of something else entirely.
Lyta peered at him closely, trying to judge the situation. He caught her looking and scowled. ‘I’m fine.’
‘If you say so.’ She tried to keep the tone unchallenging. She was not very good at that. ‘Have you . . . have you talked to Beatriz?’
He froze. Of course he hadn’t. He was avoiding her because of Ben. The moment the king had returned he’d ordered Ben imprisoned. There was nothing any of them could have done but still, the guilt lingered.
‘No,’ he whispered and his eyes took on that eerie cast, half-glowing, the colours twisting until they didn’t quite match anymore. That curious vagueness, she thought, like he blurred inside. ‘She has enough to worry about. Anyway, I’ve got work to do.’
‘Try to get some sleep,’ she told him.
‘Sleep. Right.’ Sleep was for people who didn’t have quite as many nightmares as the two of them. Lyta knew that much. ‘Just don’t be out too late, Lyta. The Kingsguard is on the prowl.’
The city watch was one thing. They were notoriously under-resourced, understaffed and easy to avoid. If not, then most of them were entirely open to bribes. Francisco’s forces had no say over the general keeping of the peace in the city and tended to leave well enough alone so long as it didn’t interfere with their duties. The Kingsguard though . . . it was new. Francisco had created it on campaign – his men, his soldiery, answerable only to him. Nothing like his bodyguard who served to protect him and his family. The Kingsguard was his knife at the belly of the city and sooner or later someone was going to get gutted.
The king had a thing about sedition. Lyta and Kit knew all about that. It had landed her brother in Old Steen and had almost cost all of them their lives. Now Francisco was seeing it everywhere. The Blacksmiths’ Guild had been at the centre of a plot against him, the most influential guild in all of Amberes. The conspiracy had taken in one of his most trusted generals, the man he had thought to make Governor of Amberes, a member of House Alvarez, the richest noble family in his kingdom. All in one person. Juan Alvarez de Marasso.
The miserable bastard was Beatriz and Ben’s cousin, which implicated them as well. Especially Ben, who had been working with the alchemist Thomas Charnock at the heart of it all. Children had died thanks to Charnock’s work. And Ben’s. All because the alchemist didn’t care about anything but power, and the guildmaster had believed he was acting on behalf of the people of Amberes, that he was serving the will of the gods.
The Free Men of Amberes, they’d called themselves. Sylvian had shattered that illusion. Amberes had not risen in support of the likes of them. The Blacksmiths’ Guild was broken, Marasso was dead, the gods involved banished to the Nether, Charnock in prison back in Albion, and Ben . . .
There had been no word of him since the king had returned to the city and marched him off. Lyta remembered all too well the torture of not knowing if a loved one was still alive. The same kind of torture Kit was enduring now, fearing the worst, unable to give up hope.
The Free Men of Amberes hadn’t vanished. Not entirely. The words appeared still, scrawled on walls, whispered in the dark. Rumours and insinuations, all of them dangerous.
The problem with sedition was that the harder the authorities came down on it, the more likely it was to actually blossom. Amberes liked the idea of freedom almost as much as it liked the idea of money. Mainly the freedom to do what it wanted with that money.
Soldiers have no place in a city, Ranulf Wray used to say. Things always went wrong eventually. The accords between Amberes and the king were crystal clear on that, designating what they could and couldn’t do within the walls. Even so, they were using up resources Amberes needed, livestock and crops from the surrounding farms going missing, or simply commandeered on the roads. Mercenaries were the worst. They’re made for war, not peace. Itching for a fight all the time. Sooner or later that always comes out.
‘I’ll be careful,’ she said, and she meant it. Not that Kit looked like he believed her. When had she ever been careful? And now she didn’t even have her god to watch out for her. A thief without the Trickster on her side couldn’t last that long.
*
Lyta slipped out into the night. Amberes was never a quiet and sedate place, not even after dark. From the dockside bars and brothels down to the comings and goings in the underworld of the Rookery, from the trade caravans arriving from all over the continent to the last ships sailing late up the Scaldis, the wheels of the city were always turning in some way or another. It was home.
Not long after she left the end of the Meir, she noticed someone following her. Dodging down a few of the smaller laneways didn’t shake them, neither did ducking into a bar on Spinner’s Alley and out the back door. She used a makeshift bridge constructed from an old ladder to cross a canal. Her newly acquired shadow found her again as she skirted the gardens between the Temple of Cissonia and the back of the guild houses. Damn them – they knew the city almost as well as she did.
She hadn’t told Kit where she was going, and her brother would never have been able to follow her with half the dogged skill of this bastard.
She detoured over the inner canal and into the shadow of Old Steen, the Old Quarter proper. This part of the city had once been grand, but now had the faded splendour of a dowager long past her prime. The buildings were crumbling, the temples falling apart. The narrow canals seemed the only thing holding the place together, a network of water feeding the greater city from the docks to the outer walls.
Tucking herself into a porticoed doorway, her back to one of the great pillars, Lyta waited, drawing the little knife that had always served her so well. Her shadow was coming closer, their boots almost silent on the cobbles. Lyta drew in a breath, ready to confront them when something cold, hard and painfully sharp pressed to the side of her neck.
‘I’d put that down if I was you,’ said Frida, her blade never shaking.
‘Thought you were a wheellock girl.’ Lyta fought to keep the tremor out of her voice. She didn’t drop her own knife but she did lower it, keeping it carefully pointed away from her old partner in crime. Her betrayer. The woman who had twice saved her life.
Perhaps more times.
‘Wheellocks are loud and messy,’ said Frida.
A click broke the stillness of the night.
‘Effective though,’ said Sylvian, stepping out of the shadows on the other side, looking down the length of his arm past the wheellock aimed unerringly at Frida’s face. ‘Fast too. How fast are you?’
Frida let out a low laugh. Her knife pressed closer against Lyta’s skin. Not enough to cut, but enough to make her point, as it were.
Lyta drew in a shaky breath. ‘I would very much prefer not to be at the centre of this debate.’
Neither of them moved, and nor could Lyta, not while they faced off over her. Wonderful.
‘Put the weapons down, you fools.’ A haughty voice came from the door leading to the ruined Temple of Kyron. ‘None of us want the Kingsguard accusing us of being openly armed after nightfall.’
Lord Alderton emerged from the interior, an alchemical glow ball illuminating him with an eerie green light. Frida took a step back, raising her hands in mock surrender, the knife vanishing with a flick of her hand. Gods alone knew where. She always had any number of them hidden about her person. What Frida could do with those knives didn’t bear thinking about.
Speaking of being openly armed, Lyta noted that Alderton had a rather impressive sword hanging at his side. But then he wasn’t just anyone was he? An ambassador. Things must have gone better than expected in Albion. Although, he was back here again, so maybe not all that great.
‘Thought we were meeting alone,’ Lyta said.
Alderton directed his icy gaze to Sylvian. His nod was oddly respectful. ‘And yet here we all are.’
Lyta glared at her unrepentant lover – fiancé now, although she still couldn’t get used to that – and Sylvian shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. No regrets there either. She would definitely be having words with him later on.
Not that he’d listen.
‘Lord Chant.’ Alderton’s tone was just mocking enough to get Syl’s back up. Sylvian Chant was a margrave – whatever that meant.
Syl lifted his chin sharply. ‘Lord Alderton.’ He hadn’t put the wheellock away, though it was pointed at the ground which was as much of a gesture of goodwill as he was likely to offer. ‘I should point out that I have every right to bear arms within the city walls at any hour. I serve the king.’
‘And I have diplomatic licence. Imagine the incident we could cause. Shall we move on?’
Which left Frida and Lyta the ones who would get into trouble if anyone happened upon them.
‘Inside,’ said Alderton, and turned his back on them. He really had a remarkable amount of confidence in Frida to guard him. Lyta was never going to turn her back on the woman again.
‘After you,’ Lyta said.
Frida huffed out a laugh and followed her master.
Sylvian’s hand on her shoulder almost made Lyta jump out of her skin.
‘You’re not meant to be here,’ he growled.
Lyta frowned. ‘You what?’
‘He sent me a note. Did you read it?’
Alderton’s voice drifted impatiently out of the darkness. ‘I invited both of you. If you don’t even bother to engage in basic communication I really think you ought to reconsider this whole marriage business. It won’t end well.’
The interior of the Temple of Kyron had not improved since Lyta had last been here. Not that she had taken much in at the time. Petrus Janlow and his gang had almost succeeded in lynching Sylvian here so she’d been preoccupied with saving his life at the time.
Did Alderton know that?
It might have been designed to put them on edge. She wouldn’t put anything past Charles Alderton, but for now, she could play nice.
The hollow and faded splendour of the temple spread out around them. The walls were damp and rotting, the holes in the roof letting in the elements. The frescos on the walls were little more than smears of murky colour and mould. In the heart of the shrine a skeletal figure with a horned helmet gazed down at them, hanging from the wall above the place where the altar had once been. Kyron the Warrior. The bastard god who had conspired with Marasso, Charnock and De Werve to take the Crown in the form of the young prince. One of the three who had betrayed Ben and paved the way for whatever had happened to Kit.
Lyta hoped Kyron’s screams echoed in the Wandering Ways until the Nether consumed whatever was left of him.
Kyron had always made a point of tormenting Lyta’s little god, a bully to the core. The thought of Eninn sent another pang of loss through her and she pushed it away.
‘So, what do you want, Alderton?’ she asked. There was no point in stringing this out. She couldn’t wait to get out of the place.
‘A gentleman always pays his debts, Mistress Cornellis.’
Sylvian’s gaze slid by Lyta to fix on Alderton, dark with suspicion. They may have worked together to rescue her in the Blacksmiths’ Guild but debts were rarely good news.
Alderton must have seen it. His lips drew up into a smirk. He had no fear of Sylvian, not really, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.
‘Lord Stirling asked me to pass on a message concerning your brother. From Viola.’
That sobered Lyta a little. ‘Viola? Or Rhiannon?’
Alderton snorted softly, a dismissive sound that showed his irritation more than his expressionless face. ‘Is there a difference anymore? I prefer to believe my sister is there still. Who knows? Rhiannon then, if we must. The Goddess of Albion herself bid me bring you a warning. The seers at Aquae Sulis told her that a new god will rise in Amberes, and that a brother and sister would usher him in. This city will be his, along with all the might of the old gods of Amberes. Rhiannon says that whoever might seize that divinity could become a god themselves.’
‘What do you mean, seize that divinity?’
‘A newborn god is weak, and their divinity may be taken from them. They will be hunted by the unscrupulous, the ambitious. With that much nascent power in play, anyone can become divine. We never know what a god will do, especially an unknown one. She called it a time of opportunity and terrible danger. Lord Stirling says there is a way to remove such a god from someone without harm. They thought you might have a need for such information.’
Lyta stared at him, but Alderton was looking out over the temple interior, as if studying the faded decor. He appeared unwilling or unable to make eye contact with her.
‘Why?’
She knew why. Of course, she knew why. The god in Kit wasn’t new, but very old indeed. They wouldn’t have told him, would they? Viola and Stirling? Not about Kit.
But Alderton had ways of finding out secrets. That was his greatest strength. That and a complete lack of morals about how he used such information.
He shrugged. ‘Who knows why divinity does anything, dear lady? Gods have always preyed upon each other. The Imperator hunts others of his kind for sport, even leaving pockets of them alive for later, like a divine deer park. He drains them of their magic and casts them into the Wandering Ways, and has taught his followers to do the same, either through artefacts like that sword you were so keen to get your hands on, or the rings their Patricians favour. That will be the fate of this so-called new god, I fear, and any old ones remaining, if this power falls into the wrong hands. As for Stirling’s intentions? Your guess is as good as mine.’
He really loathed the man, she knew that. Perhaps now more than ever since, as Rhiannon’s Chosen, Stirling was closely tied to what was left of Viola.
Yes, Lyta knew all about that and the way it left others out in the cold.
‘What information did Stirling give you?’
Alderton took out a small black pocketbook, pulled out a loose page carefully folded between the leaves, and handed it to her. He held the glow ball a little higher so she could read.
The words on it were incomprehensible. There were images too. A bell, a book and some kind of flame. Other things, symbols she didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Some of it was in Latin. Far too much of it. A chill crawled up her spine and exploded at the base of her skull, as if she had eaten a lump of ice.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘But you know someone who will, if the king ever lets him out of whatever hole he threw him into. Gods are dangerous. We know that, you and I. Any interaction with them can destroy a human, sometimes entirely. The mind, the body, the soul – if such a thing truly exists.’
She glanced around the temple again, unable to stop the shiver of superstition. ‘Isn’t that blasphemy?’
He really didn’t care for gods, did he? Even though his sister was one. To say something like that here . . . even in the temple of a dead god. A lost bastard god who had killed Eninn and almost destroyed her brother in pursuit of a new life and a mortal crown.
Yeah, maybe she didn’t much care for the gods either.
The loss of Eninn was still a gaping wound in her mind. She’d do anything to get him back. But the others? They could rot.
Alderton gave a bitter laugh. ‘My goddess said it, so probably not.’ And there it was, the way he said my goddess. The source of that hostility. The pain buried deep underneath. Lyta’s mouth opened in unexpected sympathy, but she couldn’t find words. Her voice was locked inside her, not by magic or anything like that. Horror, she decided. What had happened to Viola could happen to Kit. At any moment.
‘Stirling tried to explain,’ Alderton continued bleakly, ‘but as he would be sure to tell you, he is so much cleverer than I am. When a god fills someone, even an Aspect, even a Divine Nexus born with the ability to contain them, the person risks being . . . devoured perhaps? Or wiped away. Think of a drawing in sand. One small wave will leave traces of them behind, but a great one, or a great many, scours them clean. It’s less of a risk for someone like Benedictus Alvarez, or my sister, but it does happen. Even to the strongest. Divinity is not meant for human beings.’
‘You mean Viola?’
He winced. Yes, he definitely meant his sister. She was gone and only her goddess remained.
‘I mean anyone. You were lucky, Lyta Cornellis. The creature that lodged himself in your mind had little enough strength to begin with. He could only hollow out a place to hide himself away. He’s gone, isn’t he?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Leaving you much as you were before. Benedictus Alvarez was lucky too. First, in that he was born to be a Nexus for the divine and second, that none of those he carried were able to cooperate long enough to take full control of his body any more than they did. Their squabbles saved his mind I think, but your brother—’
Lyta found her voice. She was not having this. Ben hadn’t been lucky. He’d been betrayed by those gods he’d saved, and left to carry the can for a conspiracy. He was probably dead. She didn’t want Alderton even mentioning her brother in the same breath. ‘Leave Kit out of it.’
‘Would that I could. I hope that something of my sister survives, but it’s not likely. She opened herself to the full divine fire of our greatest goddess, the embodiment of Albion, and it burned right through her. If any trace of Viola remains, it is but an echo, a memory. I’ve seen that myself. Something happened to your brother in that wretched guild, didn’t it? You know it. I know it. You gave up Eninn to save Kit and I commend that. Our gods are never our friends, Lyta, even the weakest of them, and especially not the greatest. We are mayflies to them. So if Kit was—’ He rolled his shoulders as if shaking off something uncomfortable or unpalatable. ‘Well, whatever happened . . . you have the means to save him if you don’t leave it too late. If it isn’t too late already.’
Lyta clenched her jaw. ‘Kit’s fine.’
He wasn’t though. The arch look Alderton gave her said that he knew as well as she did, and that alone worried her more than anything. Was he having them watched?
She pocketed the page carefully. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Unless you would be so good as to stay out of my business here in Amberes. You have cost me enough. I owed you a debt. Consider it repaid.’ He laughed his familiar condescending laugh. ‘Bell, book and candle – that was what Stirling said. And two siblings, a brother and a sister. That sounds familiar, does it not? The seers of Aquae Sulis are rarely mistaken. Make of it what you will, my dear lady. Now, it is late. I should go.’
Lyta spun towards him and he actually took a step back from her, as if in alarm. Sylvian bristled. So did Frida.
She pressed the advantage anyway. ‘Why not use this information yourself? Get your sister back. Drive out Rhiannon.’
His entire demeanour darkened. For a long moment she thought the rage in him would erupt. In the end he just balled his aristocratic hands into fists. ‘I would indeed. But . . .’ Was that actually grief in his eyes? The man Lyta knew had never shown her anything but arrogance and cruelty. He let out a long, ragged breath. ‘If I tried that, if I survived the attempt, and if I was willing to face the wrath of my entire kingdom to do so – which I am not saying I would not – I still
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
