Marguerite is standing in front of the practice room, shocked and disoriented by what she is witnessing.
"Oil, vuel savoir soudainnemant. ne sui mie mariee."
The sounds, the tones, they all feel so familiar to Marguerite. She doesn't even have to concentrate to quickly realize how similar this sounds to the French from her world.
Indeed, the language spoken by the Keltcic is Old French. Quite mysteriously so. The facts laid out before her plunge Margeurite into a hurricane of nostalgia. It fills her with both sorrow and glee. She stands in a trance in front of the lively crowd.
