The Merchant had been a tender, if overly busy, husband who responded well to Nurse’s simple love cures. But the Noble’s Son was a different sort altogether. Thoroughly cosseted by his own father, he had, unfortunately, never been whipped, so wagging tongues told how he had grown into a difficult young man. Nurse knew the stories. She knew her young lady’s only hope for happiness would be direct intervention by the original essence of Love.
If Son was bad, the Immortal known as Love was worse, having long ago abandoned our world to a nasty troop of fat, naked, winged little imps who did as they pleased. All the best practitioners agreed that Love had retired to a star palace where They (for Love encompasses multitudes) reacted stormily if anyone drew Their attention to worldly concerns.