Stavanger Bay I am not the slave to history but rather the slave to ambition.

She was a fine thing; as he compared her to Monet though, Renoir found little things to nitpick, and gradually her appeal faded from his eyes. Pretty, yes, but nothing as ideal as his sister - or the fine child of Donnelaith. When he finished comparing her with his obvious studying of her various angles, he tsk-ed softly, and gave a little bow. Mwen am Renoir, of the Bordens. Which meant very little here.

Still, he expanded to at least explain his enthusiasm: Ou look very much like my sè, Monet. Mwen te panse — ah, slipping back and forth between his comfort zone and the language of the natives here, Renoir had to pause and think so as not to confuse himself. Then his speech was slow and deliberate, but still heavily accented. I thought ou were my sista. Not so, but I am 'appy to meet ou still, miss Rowan. Where had she come from? He did wonder, but did not ask, deciding he had already fumbled the conversation enough.