“He said I was a daughter of the bards. What are they?”
“Welsh poets, who lived hundreds of years ago.”
“Why am I their daughter, please?”
“He meant that you were the sort of girl they sang about.”
She wrinkled her brows. “I think he likes to joke. Am I?”
“Would you believe me, if I told you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, I think he was right.”
She smiled.
And Ashurst thought: 'You are a pretty thing!'