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Sins of the House of Borgia

Sins of the House of Borgia

3.6 94
by Sarah Bower

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In 1492, when Ferdinand and Isabella expel the Jews from Spain, six year old Esther Sarfati finds herself travelling to Rome to join her father, a successful banker who has helped his fellow Spaniard, Rodrigo Borgia, finance his bid for the Papacy. Nine years later, as Pope Alexander VI, he repays the favour by offering Esther a place in the household of his daughter,


In 1492, when Ferdinand and Isabella expel the Jews from Spain, six year old Esther Sarfati finds herself travelling to Rome to join her father, a successful banker who has helped his fellow Spaniard, Rodrigo Borgia, finance his bid for the Papacy. Nine years later, as Pope Alexander VI, he repays the favour by offering Esther a place in the household of his daughter, Lucrezia, who is about to marry Alfonso d'Este, heir to the Duchy of Ferrara. Against her own better judgement, but in accordance with her father's wishes for her future, the re-named Violante converts to Christianity and enters Lucrezia's service as lady-in-waiting. Flattered by Lucrezia's favour, seduced by the friendship of her cousin, Angela Borgia and swept off her feet by Lucrezia's glamorous and dangerous brother, Cesare, she is drawn into a web of intrigue and deceit which will test her heart to its utmost and burden her with secrets she must carry to her grave. Set against the glittering background of the court of Ferrara in the early sixteenth century, this is the heart-breaking story of what happens to an innocent abroad in the world of the Borgias.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
A young Jewish woman is drawn into the splendor and corruption surrounding the court ofthe Borgia pope, Alexander VI, in Bower's debut, a slick historical soap opera. After Esther Sarfati is baptized and becomes alady-in-waiting to the widowed Lucrezia Borgia, the pope's illegitimate daughter, she is attracted to Lucrezia's seductive and cruel brother, Cesare. Esther becomes ensnared in a web of deceit and betrayal as Lucrezia issent in a political marriage to the powerful Alfonso d'Este, heir to the dukedom of Ferrara. Determined to pursue aromance with the elusive Cesare, Esther is increasinglydrawn into the schemes and passions of the Ferrara and Borgiafamilies. While Esther's blind love for the careless and usuallyabsent Cesare strains belief, the sheer grandeur of the papal andFerrara courts, and the spectacle of the Borgia and Ferrarasiblings' rivalries and revenges form a glittering take on one of the most notorious families of the Italian Renaissance. (Mar.)
RT Book Reviews
Bower brilliantly merges history with politics and convincing characters to draw readers into a lush and colorful tapestry of Renaissance life... This powerful piece of fiction ranks with some of the finest of the genre. 4 1/2 Stars, Top Pick of the Month
From the Publisher
"The sheer grandeur of the papal and Ferrara courts, and the spectacle of the Borgia and Ferrara siblings' rivalries and revenges form a glittering take on one of the most notorious families of the Italian Renaissance. " - Publishers Weekly

"Bower brilliantly merges history with politics and convincing characters to draw readers into a lush and colorful tapestry of Renaissance life... This powerful piece of fiction ranks with some of the finest of the genre. 4 1/2 Stars, Top Pick of the Month " - RT Book Reviews

"Very Philippa Gregory, but with better writing and less on-screen incest.

" - books i done read

"Whether a poor Jewish fishing town or the intricate palace of Italy's most notorious family, Sarah Bower commands the scenes with her explicit details and beautifully vivid descriptions.The characters have a vibrancy that brings them to life before our eyes, a sense of realness that makes them relatable and emotionally investing. " - Romance Fiction Suite 101

"This is a very well researched story of the Borgia family, who are more corrupt than the Tudor court could ever have been. " - CelticLady's Reviews

"This is a well crafted book that gives the true flavor of this hedonistic family. The politics, rivalries, sadism, and excesses of the Italian Renaissance are well described and the plot lines moves very smoothly. There a multitude of well fleshed out characters and, for this reason, it's a good book to savor more slowly than same. Ms. Bower has a real talent and I will be looking out for her next work." - Books by the Willow Tree

" It was a very fresh take on his this fascinating family and cannot speak highly enough of THE SINS OF THE HOUSE OF BORGIA. I find that I am telling everyone I know and even random strangers who are in the bookstore about this book. If you are looking for court intrigue then this is the book for you.

" - Royal Reviews

"This is a great character driven historical novel giving readers a very entertaining portrayal of very interesting family. The Soprano's of the Renaissance! I would recommend to historical fiction lovers as well as those who want to read a book that has everything from debauchery to betrayal and back again.

" - Deb's Book Bag

"Sins of the House of Borgia is beautifully written and so effectively exemplifies the glamour of the Borgia court that you can easily sympathize with Esther's loss of self within it. This novel is not meant to be rushed through and I am not able to come close to describing all the people, intrigues and alliances in this review. The author does a wonderful job of combining the facts known about the Borgias with rumors and elaborations of those known to be around them but for which the history books say very little. I will be waiting to see what Ms. Bower has to offer next" - Luxury Reading

"A sizzling new novel about a young Jewish woman ensnared with love and lust by Cesare Borgia, the pope's illegitimate son.

" - USA Today

Kirkus Reviews

A surprisingly sympathetic portrayal of the Renaissance clan who gave meaning to the term "Machiavellian," narrated by a lady-in-waiting to Lucrezia Borgia. The Showtime drama based on the book premiers April 2011.

Esther, who left Spain after Ferdinand and Isabella ordered the expulsion of the Jews, followed her father to Rome, losing her mother on the journey. Her father, a moneylender to the Vatican, arranges, for his daughters' protection, to have her join the court of Lucrezia, one of Pope Alexander VI's many illegitimate noble children. The Borgias require that Esther be baptized Catholic. Later, Lucrezia's dashing, unscrupulous brother, Duke Valentino, known as Cesare, sardonically nicknames Esther "Violante" (promise-breaker). Despite the Duke's dangerous reputation as an assassin and womanizer, Violante is violently attracted to him. He toys with her affections, but when Violante follows Lucrezia to the province of Ferrara where she is to wed its ruler, Duke Alfonso d'Este, Cesare stays away. Lucrezia settles into her relatively happy marriage to Alfonso. (It's her third politically expedient union to be negotiated by the Pope: Previous husbands were shed, one fatally, when they no longer served Alexander's interests.) Violante exchanges romantic confidences with her fellow lady-in-waiting Angela (Lucrezia's cousin), who has affairs with two of Alfonso's brothers.On a visit, Cesare deflowers and impregnates Violante. He's long gone, besieging other Italian city states and perpetrating all manner of treachery, when Violante gives birth to a son, Girolamo. Lucrezia, though her love for Cesare is more than sisterly, appears to share in Violante's hope that Cesare will propose marriage. Much plotting, dungeon-languishing (but, oddly enough, no poisoning, at least not of humans) later, this ponderous tome lumbers to a close. The confinement of the point of view to Violante narrows the scope of the novel to her observations of the pageantry of life among the great, and although her descriptions are lush and detailed, the Borgias and their enemies emerge as mere figments of history, not fully fleshed characters.

Like a tapestry of the period, decorous but two-dimensional.

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Sins of the House of Borgia

By Sarah Bower

Sourcebooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Sarah Bower
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4022-5965-4


Toledo, Omer 5252, which is the year of the Christians 1492

There are days when I believe I have given up hope of ever seeing you again, of ever being free, or master of my own fate. Then I find that the heart and guts keep their own stubborn vigil. When we say we have given up hope, all we are really doing is challenging Madam Fortune to prove us wrong.

When I was a little girl in the city of my birth, when my mother was still alive, she would take me to the synagogue, to sit behind the screen with the other women and girls and listen to the men sing the prayers for Shabbat. Sometimes, out of sight of the menfolk, while they were preoccupied by the solemnity of their duty, the women would not behave as their husbands and brothers and fathers liked to think. There would be giggling and whispering, shifting of seats, gossip exchanged by mouthing words and raising eyebrows. Fans would flutter, raising perfumed dust to dance in sunbeams fractured by the fine stone trellis which shielded us from the men. And around me was a continuous eddy of women, touching my hair and face, murmuring and sighing the way I have since heard people do before great works of art or wonders of nature.

This attention scared me, but when I looked to my mother for reassurance, she was always smiling. When I pressed myself to her side, fitting the round of my cheek into the curve of her waist, she too would stroke my hair as she received the compliments of the other women. Such a beautiful child, so fair, such fine bones. If I hadn't been there for her birth, added my Grand Aunt Sophia, I would say she was a changeling, possessed by a dybbuk. And several of the other children my age, the girls and little boys who had not yet had their bar mitzvah, would fix solemn, dark eyes on my blue ones as if, whatever Aunt Sophia said, I was indeed a dybbuk, a malign spirit, an outsider. Trouble. Rachel Abravanel used to pull my hair, winding it tight around her fingers and applying a steady pressure until I was forced to tip back my head as far as it would go to avoid crying out and drawing the attention of the men. Rachel never seemed to care that my hair bit into her flesh and cut off the blood to her finger ends; the reward of seeing me in pain made it worthwhile.

A year after the time I am thinking of, when Rachel had died on the ship crossing from Sardinia to Naples, Señora Abravanel told my mother, as she tried to cool her fever with a rag dipped in seawater, how much her daughter had loved me. Many years later still, I finally managed to unravel that puzzle, that strange compulsion we have to hurt the ones we love.

As it was, from before the beginning of knowledge, I knew I was different, and in the month of Omer in the year 5252, which Christians call May, 1492, I became convinced I was to blame for the misfortunes of the Jews. It was a hot night and I could not sleep. My room overlooked the central courtyard of our house in Toledo, and, mingling with the song of water in the fountain, were the voices of my parents engaged in conversation.

"No!" my mother shouted suddenly, and the sound sent a cold trickle of fear through my body, like when Little Haim dropped ice down my back during the Purim feast. I do not think I had ever heard my mother shout before; even when we displeased her, her response was always cool and rational, as though she had anticipated just such an incidence of naughtiness and had already devised the most suitable punishment. Besides, it was not anger that gave her voice its stridency, but panic.

"But Leah, be reasonable. With Esther, you can pass, stay here until I've found somewhere safe and can send for you."

"Forgive me, Haim, but I will not consider it. If we have to go, we go together, as a family. We take our chances as a family."

"The king and queen have given us three months, till Shavuot. Till then, we are under royal protection."

My mother gave a harsh laugh, quite uncharacteristic of her. "Then we can complete Passover before we go. How ironic."

"It is their Easter. It is a very holy time for them. Perhaps their majesties have a little conscience after all." I could hear the shrug in my father's voice. It was his business voice, the way he spoke when negotiating terms for loans with customers he hoped would be reliable, but for whom he set repayment terms which would minimise his risk.

"King Ferdinand's conscience does not extend beyond the worshippers of the false messiah as the Moors found out. For hundreds of years they pave roads, make water systems, light the streets, and he destroys them on a whim of his wife."

"And you would destroy us on a whim of yours? We have three months before the edict comes into force. I will go now, with the boys, and you and Esther will follow, before the three months is up, so you will be perfectly safe. Besides, I need you here to oversee the sale of all our property. Who else can I trust?"

"Here, then." I heard a scrape of wood on stone as my mother leapt up from her chair. I dared not move from my bed to look out of the window in case the beam of her rage should focus on me. "Here is your plate. I will fill it and take it to the beggars in the street. If you go, you will die."

"Leah, Leah." My father's conciliatory rumble. China smashing.

"Don't move. If you tread the marzipan into the tiles I will never get them clean." Then my mother burst into tears and the trickle of fear turned to a torrent of cold sweat, so when my nurse came in to see why I was crying, she thought I had a fever beginning and forced me to drink one of her foul tasting tisanes.

"I'm sorry, Haim," I heard my mother say before the infusion took effect and sent me to sleep. My father made no response and I heard nothing more but clothes rustling against each other and the small, wet sound of kissing that made me cover my ears with my pillow.

* * *

A week later, my father and my three brothers, Eli, Simeon, and Little Haim, together with several other men from our community, left Toledo to make the journey to Italy, where many of the rulers of that land's multitude of tyrannies and city states were known to tolerate the Jews and to be wary of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, whose approach to statecraft was not pragmatic enough for them. Even the Kingdom of Naples, which was ruled by relatives of the king, was said to be content to receive refugees from among the exiles of Jerusalem. My father, however, intended to go to Rome. The pope is dying, he explained, and there is a Spanish cardinal prepared to spend a lot of money to buy the office when the time comes. This Cardinal Borja will be needing a reliable banker. We were unsure what a pope was, or a cardinal, and Borja sounded more like a Catalan name than a Spanish one to us, and a Catalan is as trustworthy as a gypsy, but my father's smile was so confident, his teeth so brilliant amid the black brush of his beard, that we had no option but to nod our agreement, bite back our tears, and tell him we would see him in Rome.

* * *

The days of Omer passed, and no news reached us. We heard rumours of ships taken by pirates in the Tyrrhenian Sea, of the legendary Corsair of Genoa who liked to cut off the ears of his victims and have them stitched into belts by his sailmaker. Some Jews attempting to leave Spain had been robbed and beaten to death by over-zealous subjects of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, particularly those who owed them money; some had died in the mountains, denied shelter or sustenance by the villagers. We heard of synagogues turned into warehouses and farmers grazing their pigs in our cemeteries.

Yet, as my mother repeatedly reminded me, there was no proof. Who had encountered a pig in our graveyard at the foot of the Cerro de Palomarejos? Had I noticed any bolts of cloth or barrels of salt herrings in the synagogue? Who had seen the Corsair wearing a sash of Jews' ears? Who had seen the smashed bodies on the beaches or the frozen bones beside the mountain passes? No one, of course, because there was nothing to see. The king and queen had declared an amnesty until the end of Omer, and until then the Jews were as safe in Spain as they had ever been, and Papa and the boys were in Rome by now preparing a new home for us with brighter tapestries on the walls and a bigger fountain in the courtyard.

Our house seemed empty and silent, especially at night when I lay in my bed listening to the crickets and my mother's soft footfalls as she paced the corridors waiting for my father's summons, willing it to come, fearful of encountering ghosts, perhaps, as she passed by the places where her sons used to play: the stables of their favourite horses, the long chamber where they all slept and which still smelled faintly of boys' sweat and flatulence. Then, late one afternoon, while I was still drowsy from siesta, my mother told me to get up and to put on as many of my clothes as I could, and never mind the heat. When I balked at my good winter cloak, she herself bundled me into it and fastened the clasp under my chin. Then we went to the stables behind the house, where I watched in astonishment as my mother saddled a horse, her fingers moving with rapid assurance among buckles and straps. I had no idea she was capable of such a thing. She slung a couple of saddlebags over the animal's back then lifted me up also, then led it around to our front door, where she paused to remove the mezuzah from the doorpost. She wrapped it, together with the key to our house, in her ketubah, and placed the package in one of the saddlebags.

It was growing dusk by this time, and the link boys had long since stopped coming to light the street lamps in our district, so those who joined us as we rode towards the city gates seemed like shade fragments broken off from the deepening mass of twilight, walking or riding beside us with hoofbeats and footfalls muffled and breath held in that strange, portentous hour of everything turning into something else. Buildings looked like dreams, random glints of mosaic tiles or brass door fittings floating in a pool of dark. Faces occasionally emerged into clarity long enough for me to recognise people I knew, then disappeared again so I could not be sure whether I had seen them or dreamed them. Especially when Rachel Abravanel smiled at me; that must have been a dream.

Once outside the Jewish quarter, our party bunched together, the men forming a protective cordon around the women and children. We had heard talk of Jews being stoned in the street, being pushed into middens, or having chamberpots emptied over their heads. My mother and her friends spoke in whispers of a Jewish woman forced into some humiliation involving a pig though, strain my ears as I might, I could never find out what. We, however, were ignored, although I imagined I could sense eyes watching us through chinks in shutters, our old neighbours too ashamed to look us in the face as they calculated the value of our abandoned houses, our vineyards, and metal works and shops.

I felt, rather than heard, my mother speak from time to time, the vibrations of her voice running through my body pressed to hers, the comfortable contours of her breasts and belly cushioning my back.

"May the All Merciful forgive me," she was saying to someone walking beside us, "but I should never have listened to Haim." She paused, checking, I think, to see if I had fallen asleep. I stayed still and kept my eyes closed, so she went on, "At least, if they had to die, I could have gone with them."

"Now Leah, what about your daughter?" came a voice from the darkness. I hardly dared breathe. Dead? Had my mother had news? Was that the reason for our sudden flight? Were they all dead, or just some of them? Please Lord, if any of my brothers had to be dead let it be Little Haim so I would not have to put up with his torments any more. How had they died? Where? What was going to happen to us now? I was suffocating beneath a shower of questions pouring like sand through a funnel.

"If it hadn't been for my daughter, I would have gone with Haim. He said we could pass, with Esther being so fair and dainty. And now the amnesty's run out, I've waited and waited and nothing. No money. Nothing. How is a woman on her own with a little girl supposed to get to Rome? And what if he isn't there? Then what?" My mother too, it seemed, was foundering beneath questions.

I remember little more of that journey, only dark, then light, then dark again, I don't know how many times. I remember dropping out of the saddle like a stone, and waking almost too stiff to stand from the bruises on the insides of my legs and my backside, and the knobbly earth I had slept on impressed on my skin and bones. To begin with, there were picnics, bread and apricots and little meatballs seasoned with cinnamon. Then hunger and thirst until I thought I could not bear it any longer and an angel of indifference came and took them away so I wondered if I had died and if paradise was just this nothing. We exchanged land for sea, the ridges of the earth for stumbling waves, the sway of the horse for the slant of a deck and the slop of ballast water. And always, like the chorus in a play, those words: if it wasn't for my daughter.

My mother's behaviour towards me did not change. She remained, if not cheerful, then steadily optimistic. She oversaw my prayers at the correct times of day; she taught me songs and made me practise the fingerings for the dulcimer on patches of flat earth or a strip of decking marked out with chalk. She saw to it I had plenty of needlework to do, though now it was more patching and darning than embroidery, and reassured me my ears were so small the Corsair of Genoa would be sure to spare me, to throw me back into the sea like a fish too little for eating. When, at the beginning of our sea voyage, before I had my sea legs, I was sick, she hid her own failing health long enough to hold my head while I vomited over the ship's rail and make me gargle seawater. The best cure, she said. I was sure she had no idea I now knew what she truly thought of me.

* * *

As my mother's exodus had begun between light and dark, so it ended in the margin between land and sea, on the beach at Nettuno. It was hot, the sun at its summer zenith, a ball of white fire in a sky scoured of everything but the tense silhouettes of buzzards describing their waiting circles. The beach was striated with shrivelled bladderwrack; the dry white sand kept falling away beneath our feet as we struggled away from the sea with our bags and boxes. There was no shade. So many were sick the captain had panicked and put us ashore at the first sight of land, and his boats, as we rigged makeshift canopies over those too ill to go any further, were nothing more than giant insects crawling across the sparkling face of the sea.

I sat miserably beside my mother, waiting for her to get better and chide me for my bare feet and the tear in my dress which I had picked at until it was beyond repair. Nobody spoke to me or took care of me; they were all too busy checking over their possessions or looking after their own sick. Some boys were sent to look for fresh water, or a village where help might be obtainable, and I longed to go with them but I dared not. What would my mother say if she woke up and found I had gone roaming around the countryside with a group of boys? I wiggled my toes in the sand; I held my mother's hand and imagined I felt an answering pressure; I believed the rasp and rattle of her breathing were attempts at speech.

After a while, with no daughter of her own to care for any longer, Señora Abravanel came to sit with me. She took a comb from her girdle and combed my hair. She talked to me about Rachel, which I found embarrassing, and I wondered why she did nothing for my mother, to help her get better.

Suddenly, my mother's lips began to move, and she jerked her head feebly from side to side, as though trying to shake off a fly.

"Esther?" Her voice was as dry and powdery as the sand.

"Yes, mama?"


Excerpted from Sins of the House of Borgia by Sarah Bower. Copyright © 2011 Sarah Bower. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Sarah Bower is a novelist and short story writer. Her short stories have appeared in magazines including QWF, Buzzwords and The Yellow Room.
She completed an MA in Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia in 2002. She teaches creative writing at the University of East Anglia and for the Open University. She also works as a mentor and manuscript reader for leading literary consultancies.

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Sins of the House of Borgia 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 94 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I LOVE historical fiction and I've read the Borgia Bride so I was hopeful that I would love this book. Don't get me wrong, it was a good story line and I'd say overall I enjoyed the book. I would say more than "Love" I "Liked" it. By the time I got to the end I didn't want it to end...but I didn't get to that point until the middle. The book was a little hard to get into and there were so many characters they were hard to keep track of (like, who was married to who and who was brothers with who, etc.). I've been to Rome so I really enjoyed when she described certain landmarks (Castel St.Angelo, for example) because it was easy to visualize where they were...but had I not been there it would have been hard to imagine. I was absolutely disappointed in the end. It almost felt like she didn't know how to end it so she just threw something together...and since I had become so "attached" to La Violante I was disappointed that it ended so abruptly. La Violante is a great main character as I think she is pretty easy to relate to.
Nook-A-holic More than 1 year ago
Its very wordy at times and can be difficult to follow all the names because of the historical references. Overall it was a good story and I do like that it ties to real people, even though its fiction. Its long and, as cheesy as it sounds, I would have liked to see something good come to Violante. It should make for an interesting TV series though.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
My mother got me this book because we're into the show on Showtime. I really enjoyed this book, I never wanted to put it down!!! The beginning was a little rocky but other than that it was really good. Im not a big read but Im glad I read this book. Next Im going to read The Borgia Bride...
Nightengail04 More than 1 year ago
I was interested in the upcoming series so I decided to read Bowers interpretation. Her descriptions of the what went on intrigued me and she kept me wanting to know more. The characters were well developed and though at times the main character's niavete bothered me, I had to realize the times. So again she did an excellent job of making you see through her eyes. Great Read. Looking forward to reading more from this author.
harstan More than 1 year ago
In the year 5252 which the Christians call 1492, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella give the Jews three months to leave. Many like the Sarfati family in Toledo decide to relocate to the city-states of Italy where the despotic rulers are tolerant towards Jews and wary of Ferdinand. The Sarfati father and his three sons move ahead to Rome where the patriarch helps finance Rodrigo Borgia efforts to become the next Pope. The females followed but the matriarch died before finishing the journey leaving her six years old daughter Esther travelling to Rome to join her father. Almost a decade later Borgia as Pope Alexander VI returns the support he received from Sarfati by allowing Esther a chance to join his daughter Lucrezia's retinue if she converts. Although Esther has doubts, her father convinces her to accept the terms. As Lucrezia marries Alfonso d'Este, Esther converts to Christianity and becomes a lady-in-waiting known as La Violante. Lucrezia thinks highly of La Violante and her cousin Angela Borgia becomes her friend; while Lucrezia's brother Cesare stirs her heart. This is an engaging look at the Borgia family through the rosy colored eyes of an innocent individual who must adapt to a world of backstabbing deadly passion or die. Cesare owns the story line as he never allows his heart or soul get in the way of his machinations. Lucrezia pales next to her sibling; as she does not seem to measure up to her brother on the viciousness scale. Filled with betrayal, readers will enjoy the Book of Esther as La Violante tells how paradise was lost and regained when she learned to trust no one not even those she thought loved her. Harriet Klausner
Anonymous 8 months ago
I liked the part where Ester described all the preparations her mother would do for getting ready for Sabbath.
MsDollie More than 1 year ago
Great read ... highly recommend it.
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This is the Hecate cabin. It is made of enchanted stines inscripted with incantations. The inside is constantly changing to the preference of the campers.
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MiaMM More than 1 year ago
Complicated storyline. Rivetting and disturbing.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago