The Red Necklace
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A mysterious gypsy boy, Yann Margoza, and his guardian, a dwarf, work for the magician Topolain in 1789. On the night of Topolain's death, Yann's life truly begins. That's when he meets Sido, an heiress with a horrible father. An attachment is born that will determine both their paths. Revolution is afoot in France, and Sido is being used as a pawn. Only Yann will dare to rescue her from a fearful villain named Count Kalliovski. It will take all of Yann's newly discovered talent to unravel the mysteries of Sido's past and his own and to fight the devilish count.
It was Anis’s wedding day. She was fourteen and the boy was sixteen. She believed that they were one soul divided into two bodies, and that only when they were together were they whole. “The ceremony started at daybreak round the campfire, when the marriage was sealed with a cut made on the bride’s right wrist and the groom’s left wrist; then their hands were bound together and they took an oath to free each other when love had left their hearts. “There was singing and dancing to celebrate—and
nothing.” He stood up and shook himself. “Now you stay put while I see if the carriage has arrived.” He leaned across the table, grasping the lapels of Yann’s coat. “If you so much as move one of them there miserable muscles of yours, you’ll be in for it and no mistake. Do you get my drift?” Yann watched as Mr. Tull wove his way across the courtyard and in that instant he decided to take his chance. His one aim was to get back to Paris to find where Têtu had been buried, and kill Kalliovski.
friends had seen fit to leave for long vacations abroad. Of Paris all he had to say was that it had become “dull, very dull indeed.” Of Versailles he talked more favorably, of balls, parties, and the card tables, though here too he had his complaints. “I observe,” he said, “that standards of dress are slipping. It is a tragedy, the loss of whalebone in corsets. Whalebone gives women such excellent stature. Now the fashion is all for ladies to look like milkmaids in their white muslin gowns,
hastily moved back. Kalliovski didn’t look up. “It is an honor, Count Kalliovski, to be called to your splendid residence,” said Topolain. “May I congratulate you on your fine taste?” “This is not my residence. It belongs to the Marquis de Villeduval. Let us hope your magic shows more skill than your words do.” Topolain was still not fully awake. How could he have forgotten what he had already been told? He attempted some more toe-curling flattery, making matters worse. Balthazar snarled
would have no hesitation in changing sides again. He was well aware that to have allegiances, to take a stand, to hold a firm political view, was the recipe for a short life. When the winds are liable to change quickly, it is best to be a reed and know how to bend. He had one motto, and it had not failed him yet. Have no mercy, show no mercy. He walked back and forth, Balthazar by his side. Still the door remained closed. He had not bargained on this delay. He had planned to have Sido out of