46

I stood in the mayor's residence in front of the table at which Brown-Headed Ferguson usually sat himself.

Only today he was standing next to me, and in front of us sat an absurd red-headed girl with a huge amount of braids-dreadlocks on her head.

“And this is my fiancé?” Yes, he's weak! she said when I came into the room to hand over some. - Second level. Horror! And how could such a nonentity become a divine favorite? I'm going back to my father and officially refusing to become some kind of fifth wife of such a slobber.

“Milady, if your father sent you on such an assignment, then…” the head of the city wanted to say something, but the girl hit the table and it stopped.

- I already said. I'm leaving. Let the father choose another aristocrat. I still do not consider myself so low as to marry a weakling, albeit with a lot of recommendations. Definitely bought!

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