29 September 2017

Twilight Empress: A Novel of Imperial Rome by Faith L.Justice Blog Tour!

Twilight Empress: A Novel of Imperial Rome by Faith L. Justice

Publication Date: May 12, 2017
Raggedy Moon Books
eBook & Print; 392 Pages
Series: The Theodosian Women, Book 1
Genre: Fiction/Historical/Action & Adventure
Twilight Empress tells the little-known story of a remarkable woman—Galla Placidia, sister to one of the last Roman Emperors. Roman princess, Gothic captive and queen—Placidia does the unthinkable—she rules the failing Western Roman Empire—a life of ambition, power and intrigue she doesn’t seek, but can’t refuse. Her actions shape the face of Western Europe for centuries. A woman as well as an Empress, Placidia suffers love, loss, and betrayal. Can her strength, tenacity and ambition help her survive and triumph over scheming generals, rebellious children, and Attila the Hun? Or will the Dark Ages creep closer and bring down the Empire?

Amazon US | Amazon CAN | Amazon UK | Barnes and Noble | iBooks | IndieBound | Kobo


TWILIGHT EMPRESS: A NOVEL OF IMPERIAL ROME
(EXERPT)

CHAPTER 1

ROME, AUGUST 410

GOD’S BLOOD, I’M TIRED.
Placidia put the parchment down, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples in a futile attempt to ease her headache. She had had little sleep the night before, and less to eat, as she worked with the city elders to avert this most recent crisis. With the Visigoths at the gates of Rome for the third time in three years, the city was exhausted—little food, few defenders, and no hope of rescue from the Imperial Court, which was safe behind the protecting marshes of Ravenna. At twenty-two, she should have been safely married, raising children; not picking up the pieces of an empire dropped from the careless hands of her half-brother, the Emperor Honorius.
“Treason and betrayal, Mistress!”
The urgency in Paulus’ gruff voice drove all tiredness from her body. Nothing chilled her blood as much as the cry of ‘treason.’ The word summoned unwanted images of her adopted sister Serena, struggling against the executioner’s garrote, and Serena’s husband Stilicho’s head on a pike. The unwarranted death of the two people who raised her had precipitated her flight from the Ravenna court and her estrangement from her brother.
Placidia took a deep breath and steadied her hands.
“What treason?” She managed a calm voice despite her racing heart.
“Someone opened the Salarian Gate. The barbarians are in the streets. We must flee to safety.”
Placidia chewed her lower lip, rapidly forming and discarding options to save her household. There were rules to sacking a city, and Placidia hoped King Alaric would abide by them. One of those rules provided sanctuary in Christian churches. The Gothic King was purportedly a devout Christian, if of the Arian heresy.
“What are your orders, Mistress?” The light of battle gleamed in Paulus’ eyes. A Vandal soldier wounded in Stilicho’s service, he had been with her since she was a child.
“Deploy my personal guards at the bottom of the hill. Take the rest of the servants to the Basilica of St. Peter immediately and claim sanctuary. I’ll come with the guards as soon as I destroy these documents.”
Placidia grabbed the nearest of several piles of parchment—letters of support; reports on food and supplies throughout the Empire—and laid them in an unlit bronze brazier. She would give the enemy no helpful information. Her hands trembled as she poured oil on the papers and lit them from her lamp. Smoke curled from the parchment, irritating her eyes.
“I’ll send the servants away, Princess, but do not ask me to leave you alone. I’ve seen my share of sacked cities.”
“I want you to go with the servants, Paulus.”
His face set in a familiar stubborn cast.
“I don’t have time to argue. What can a crippled old man do here?”
The stubborn look gave way to one of hurt pride.
Placidia softened her tone. “I have lost all whom I love in the past two years. The man and woman who were more to me than father and mother, my cousins, my…betrothed.” Her voice caught. “I have no wish to lose the one person left from my past. I care for you, my friend, and want to see you safe.”
“Do you think I care less for you?” Paulus’ eyes glittered with unshed tears. “You are the last of my lord’s household. I am bound to you by oath and blood.”
Screams echoed down the colonnade, accompanied by splintering wood and crashing crockery. Placidia froze like a rabbit before a snake. My people are lost. The raiders must have ridden hard and fast to get to the palace so soon.
Paulus grabbed the small knife Placidia used to break the wax seals on her letters, and rushed toward the door. “Come, Princess, we will go to the oratory. Perhaps they will honor sanctuary there.”
Placidia shook her head. “If King Alaric wants me dead, the chapel won’t shelter me. If he wants me alive, perhaps I can extend that privilege to my household by being bold rather than timid.”
A scream, choked off in the middle, sent Paulus through the door at a limping run. Placidia piled the rest of the papers onto the blaze and dashed out after him.
She faltered at the scene. Normally, the central garden with its splashing nymphaeum was a soothing refuge from the heat of the August sun. Now a cadre of at least fifty Gothic warriors systematically herded the palace servants into the leafy refuge, releasing the scent of lavender and rosemary as their leather-clad feet trampled herbs and flowers. They used the flats of their swords, sometimes striking a lagging slave, to push them into a tight knot of gibbering humanity.
Unlike the wildly varying dress and armor of most barbarian warriors, these wore more or less matching knee-length green tunics trimmed with scarlet at the neck and hem. Most also sported mail shirts and Roman-style helmets—rare, these days, even among Roman troops.
At least King Alaric sent an elite corps to take me.
One warrior spied her under the colonnade and rushed forward, grinning.
Paulus jumped in front of the man, threatening him with the letter knife. “Don’t touch her! She’s the…”
The barbarian brushed the knife aside with a sweep of his arm and struck Paulus with the silvered hilt of his sword.
The old man sank to the ground, senseless or dead, a large gash bleeding profusely on his forehead.
Placidia stalked into the garden, back rigid, face pale.
“Stop at once!” Her voice pierced the scene, turning it momentarily into a tableau.
The advancing warrior bared his teeth and said, in execrable Latin, “Roman woman not a mouse—more my liking.”
“I am Princess Galla Placidia, sister of Emperor Honorius, daughter of Emperor Theodosius the Great, Granddaughter of Emperor Valentinian. On pain of death, I demand you leave us in peace.”
The barbarian hesitated, confusion clouding his eyes.
Placidia suppressed an inappropriate smile. Her impressive list of relationships didn’t square with her ink-stained fingers, plain blue linen gown, and unadorned curly brown hair.
“Leave her, Berig.” A commanding voice rose from among the warriors.
A red-haired barbarian muscled his way through the pack. She had not seen him because he stood half a head shorter than most of his companions. He looked her over speculatively.
“You have the bearing of a royal, if not the accouterments.” He motioned to the slaves nearest them. “Is this your mistress?”
To their credit, they all looked to Placidia before answering. She nodded permission.
Watching the by-play, the warrior said, “I commend you on your servants, Princess. They are most loyal.” He smiled, showing white, even teeth in a tanned face framed by a red beard. Lines gathered at the corners of his green eyes. “I am Ataulf, General and Master of King Alaric’s cavalry.”
The Gothic King honors me by sending his heir and second-in-command. “General.” Placidia drew her slender form into a commanding pose. “Have these…men…vacate my residence at once.”
“We will leave shortly, Princess. King Alaric sent me to escort you to our camp. You are to be the guest of the King and the Gothic people.”
“Do not pretty the package, sir. I am a hostage. For what other reason would you force me from my home?” She waved her right arm in a sweeping arc. “You strip Rome and seek to squeeze additional treasure from my brother.”
“King Alaric recognizes your…value.”
His hesitation hinted at deeper motives for her detainment. Perhaps Alaric wished more than gold from her estranged brother. And little will he get—gold or otherwise—from that lack-wit.

About the Author

Faith L. Justice is a science geek and history junkie, which is reflected in her writing. Her short stories and poems have appeared in such publications as "The Copperfield Review", "Beyond Science Fiction and Fantasy", and the "Circles in the Hair" anthology. Faith has published in such venues as "Salon.com", "Writer’s Digest", "The Writer", and "Bygone Days". She’s an Associate Editor for "Space & Time Magazine", a frequent contributor to "Strange Horizons", and co-founded a writer’s workshop more years ago than she cares to admit. To contact Faith, read her essays and interviews, or get a sneak preview of her historical novels, visit her website at www.faithljustice.com. You can also find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.

Blog Tour Schedule

Monday, September 11
Review at 100 Pages a Day
Tuesday, September 12
Feature at The Hungry Bookworm
Guest Post at Myths, Legends, Books & Coffee Pots
Wednesday, September 13
Review at Book Drunkard
Thursday, September 14
Feature at The Reading Queen
Friday, September 15
Review & Excerpt at Clarissa Reads it All
Monday, September 18
Review at Creating Herstory
Tuesday, September 19
Review at The Muse in the Fog Reviews
Wednesday, September 20
Guest Post & Giveaway at The Muse in the Fog Reviews
Thursday, September 21
Feature at A Holland Reads
Friday, September 22
Review at Book Nerd
Monday, September 25
Review at So Many Books, So Little Time
Review & Excerpt at Locks, Hooks and Books
Tuesday, September 26
Feature at The True Book Addict
Wednesday, September 27
Review at Pursuing Stacie
Review & Giveaway at What Cathy Read Next
Friday, September 29
Review at Bookramblings
Feature at CelticLady’s Reviews
Monday, October 2
Review at History From a Woman’s Perspective
Tuesday, October 3
Review at Svetlana’s Reads and Views
Wednesday, October 4
Interview & Giveaway at Passages to the Past
Thursday, October 5
Review at A Bookish Affair

Posted by at No comments:

28 September 2017

His High Stakes Bride Texan Brides #3 by Martha Hix Book Tour and Giveaway!


HIS HIGH-STAKES BRIDE
Texan Brides #3
by Martha Hix
Genre: Historical Romance

Pub Date: 8/29/2017




Win, lose—or fall in love . . .
After losing her mama and all she has, vagabond Patience “Patty” Sweet dreams of reuniting with her father in the New Mexico territory. So she teams up with a no-good gambler whose winnings enable her to get her closer to her destination. Patty hates hanging around saloons and poker parlors, pulling dishonest deeds. But when a game of five-card draw goes wrong in Lubbock, Texas, Patty gets offered up as collateral—to a handsome stranger who’s about to turn the tables . . .
Lawyer Grant Kincaid has no intention of claiming his prize—a nearly nineteen-year-old petite beauty with sweet eyes—who has a hold on him he can’t deny. But as he tries to help Patty untangle herself from her shady partner, he discovers she’s not as innocent as she seems. For starters, she’s already stolen his hardened heart . . .










Chapter 1
Lubbock, Texas, 1910 Under a full moon
It is a sad day in a woman’s life when she comes to grips with weakness of character. Today might have been that way for Patience Eileen Sweet, but she couldn’t dwell on something like that. Not this day, which had turned into a warm autumn night in 1910. Not when she intended to escape the mess of her own making. Her papa would have told her, “Patty Cake, proceed with caution.” He always claimed full moons bring babies, lunatics, and any number of disasters, particularly mine cave-ins.
Tonight would bring change; that she knew beforehand. This night unfolded for Patty in a saloon. By the midnight hour the floozies had served their last drinks and were nowhere to be seen, most of the customers having cleared out. The bartender did nothing to cover his yawns. Cigar smoke still curled toward the tin ceiling. Gaming chips still pinged. Three gamblers refused to give in or give up.
Still and all, it would be over soon.
Looking up from her mending, she meant to steal a glance at her “stepbrother,” but she locked gazes with one of the gamblers instead, and not for the first time this evening. The three were close enough that she could get a good look—he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. As he had the other times, he nodded once. There was a puzzled, curious look to his fine features, certainly not the nasty-old-pervert leer that Dorinda had warned her to look out for.
She did like this man’s black-haired, blue-eyed looks. He wore the garb of  a West  Texan—a yoked shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons  and

denim britches that hugged him just right. His boots were the same kind that cowboys wore, only this ’poke’s weren’t scuffed or worn out. His clothes looked too clean, his hair and chin too smooth for a man of the land. He looked rich.
Patty moved her line of sight to her partner-in-crime, Chet Merkel. It was his turn to deal, and she could tell he was losing at five-card stud. They couldn’t afford for him to lose, not even for one evening, yet she prayed for his bad luck.
She knew what his next move would be. He’d barter her virginity. For the third time.
Twice before to two different men in two different towns.
Tonight it was Scarlet Garter Jenny’s Saloon. The “winner” would  be a short, dark sheriff wearing a big, thick wedding ring. Or else the winner might be that curious fellow—the smooth-shaven pretty boy that the drunkards, gamblers, and preening waitresses called “counselor” and “mouthpiece,” with “Grant” or “Kincaid” thrown in from time to time. Well, the painted ladies usually said “Sugar.”
Neither of these men looked as gullible as the previous winners of her so-called prize.
Anyway, Patty knew how to get out of being the night’s reward. Did she even want to? Just looking at Grant Kincaid had her in a tizzy. One way or another, things would be different tonight. She was cutting all ties to her double-dealing snake of a “stepbrother,” Chet Merkel.
Definitely, she wouldn’t be rendezvousing with Chet later.
* * * *
Grant Kincaid spent many nights at the poker table. As a bachelor uninterested in ice-cream socials or musical recitals performed by the boring flowers of Lubbock society, he lacked choices beyond reading and visiting friends or relatives. Not that he had any local relatives, beyond the Kincaids of the High Hopes farm and ranch and their relatives, the Craigs. He hailed from the shoals of the Tennessee River in northwest Alabama. Besides, he enjoyed playing cards. After the last hand of an evening, he sometimes got lucky with one of the tarts, two if he was really lucky. He liked ’em ripe, filled out, and hotter than a thin-skinned jalapeño pepper
under the broiling Texas sun.
Tonight, he’d been leery of the tinhorn already at the Garter when Grant arrived for Thursday night poker. The odd-looking fellow, who’d shown up with an adolescent sister in tow, wanted to join the game between Grant

and the general store proprietor, a local rancher, noted baker Mrs. Jewel Craig, and Sheriff Wes Alington, who played whenever his mother went visiting in San Angelo.
The last seat was occupied by a cotton-gin salesman from Dallas. Since the High Hopes Ranch showed that cotton could be successfully grown in West Texas, cotton had become a popular way to make money in the previous decade.
Tonight, the table cleared early with the less-than-dapper newcomer— he introduced himself as Chet Merkel—taking several hands. Jewel the baker bowed out first. Next went the general store man and the rancher. The cotton-gin representative took his leave after his third bad hand. That left Alington, Grant, and the tinhorn.
Luck started going Grant’s way, then the sheriff’s.
Always cool and quiet at the table, the compactly built lawman wore black and a shiny silver star, but never a sign of his wealth. His history with card playing didn’t reach far back. After he’d married a Valkyrie from the Hill Country, he’d taken up gaming. His mother had and would object to just about anything that might have “enjoyment” tacked to it, but the missus advised Alington just to do what he wanted, as long as he was smart enough to hide it from Mother Dear and it didn’t involve cavorting with other women. That was laughable. The sheriff had eyes only for his Lisa-Ann. Grant hoped when he found a wife that he could love her even half as much as Alington idolized the blonde from The Divide.
“Do you plan to answer my bet, Mr. Merkel?” Wes Alington pointed to the five green chips he’d slid to the center of the baize-covered table.
A bead of sweat popped on Merkel’s temple. Carelessly flicking cigar ashes on the floor, he cast a glance at his sister who sat primly in a straight chair in the corner, mending a garment that looked to be a shirt.
Grant eyed the girl, as he had several times. This dimple-cheeked young lady had long titian-hued hair held up in a big white bow. Dressed in the childish style of a sailor, she wore leggings that covered her slender calves, and her hems were short, befitting a little girl. He would bet every last chip in front of him that she wasn’t a day over sixteen.
She was too young to be candy to the senses. Most men of his age wanted to marry girls of sixteen or seventeen—often even younger, to pluck a cherry from the tree—but this man preferred women to girls, and he wasn’t angling for a wife.
That’s what he liked to tell himself. In truth, he yearned to find the ideal lady to fill the emptiness of his heart and home.
“See your bet, Sheriff, and raise you a hundred.” The girl’s brother

tossed the required chips atop Alington’s last bet.
One hundred? A ridiculous bet for a friendly game. It was time to end this nonsense. Given his excellent hand, Grant figured the only call for Merkel was “quits.” He said, “Raise you two hundred.”
It turned out that Alington had bluffed with two jacks. He folded, saying, “Too rich for me. And it’s past my Lisa-Ann’s tuck-in time. Don’t want to miss that.”
He took his leave; then Merkel covered the bet.
“Raise you five hundred,” Grant challenged, feeling confident with his four-of-a-kind and ready for bed himself. Circuit court would convene this Saturday and he had a pair of cases to review tomorrow.
The stranger sucked his cigar, squinting at his challenger. He was squinty- eyed to begin with. “Look, I’m short on chips. I can cover your bet, but I’ll have to collect the cash from the hotel’s strongbox. Tomorrow morning.”
“That’s not the way we play poker in Lubbock, my friend.” “I have…collateral.”
“How is that?”
“That girl—I mean, lady—over there.” The way he spoke, a person would think the room had dozens of females. “That lovely brown-eyed lady. She’s my collateral.”
“No thanks.”
“You don’t like women?” “Don’t go there, my friend.”
“I’m asking for a break, sir. I’m trying to bet a good hand. A hand so pat that I’m willing to put up my own sister as my stake.”
“Your sister.” Grant saw absolutely no family resemblance. Of course, this was Texas, where families socialized in barrooms, and even brought their little children along. “Same mother, or same father?”
“Same mo—same father.”
That stumble gave Merkel away as a liar. Grant saw no need to tread that avenue. “I don’t know where you’re from, but brothers don’t bring their sisters to places like this, not one on one.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. She’s my sister. My one and only. What was I to do with her? Leave her alone in the hotel tonight?”
Grant took another look. Earlier, he’d seen Jewel Craig buying the girl a glass of milk that went untouched. “Don’t you think she might enjoy a root beer, or at least a cup of water? She’s been sitting there for hours.” While you’ve swilled several beers.
“If Patience wants something, she’ll find a way to get it.”
If a man said something like that in Alabama, a gentleman would jump

to the young lady’s rescue to fetch her a refreshment, if he didn’t have a servant to do it. He would certainly want to know what part of the North the uncouth toad hailed from. This wasn’t the Deep South. Grant asked, “Are you going to take my raise or not?”
“What about my problem? I’ve got money. Plenty. Oklahoma money. Forty-sixth state money. That’s where we’re from, Oklahoma. Tulsa. Oil country. I just made a stack on mineral rights.”
“Is that so?” Grant didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the newest state, although his friend the sheriff had mentioned Oklahoma being a place that gushed oil.
Merkel flicked his index finger along the top of his hand of cards, ruffling the five. “I’ve got a hand I believe in. Allow me to stay in the game on the strength of an evening with my sister. Just think. My sweet, untouched sister, right over there, preparing you a tasty breakfast in the morning. Could happen. Or not.”
Grant Kincaid took the measure of Chet Merkel, seeing a beady-eyed fellow of about twenty. He grew a thin, kinked beard to cover a lack of chin. Pomade slicked the brown hair over his dome. His sartorial effects had been tailored to a larger man. Truth to tell, his observer almost felt sorry for the man. He was not an impressive negotiator. All in all, he came across as hard luck.
Grant eyed the girl again. The needlework now in her lap, she stared back, her eyes big and round. She too looked desperate, with scared mixed in. He eyed Merkel again. Did this idiot even realize what he’d suggested? “What are you doing, bringing your sister into a saloon? She’s a child.”
“It’s not against the law. She’s nineteen.” “Fifteen. And you’re not her guardian.” “Says who? And she’s nineteen.”
“Save it, son. I am not fooled.”
“All right. She’s eighteen. You’re correct. She’s not my sister. She’s a stepsister…after a fashion.”
Grant groaned and rolled his eyes.
Merkel ground out his cigar. “She’s Patience Sweet, sir. In December of ’08, her pa left for a mining job in the Territory of New Mexico. He’s not been heard from since. He’s dead, likely. Her mother believes so. She took up with my pa. They live as man and wife. Somewhere in Oklahoma. Exactly where, I cannot say, because Patience and I do not know.”
Grant noticed she dabbed her eye with a hankie. Poor innocent.
“Her ma abandoned her. Left her with the rent overdue. When I arrived to find my father and to collect an inheritance that should’ve been  mine,

what I found was this young woman. The total of my inheritance, you might say, was the suit on my back and the contents of Patience’s larder—a roach on a reduction diet.”
“What kind of family does she hail from, where they abandon their own?” What an idiotic question. One look at Merkel answered that, really. These folks scraped by. As a lawyer, Grant had witnessed how badly families could and did treat their own.
The mineral-rights money? Dollars to doughnuts, there wasn’t any. Merkel was saying, “Me, I’m headed to Juarez, then on down to
Chihuahua City. I’ve got my own mining ideas. It’s a crystal palace, that part of Mexico. Crystals have value in numerous regards and will make me a wealthy man. As soon as Patience got wind of my travel plans, she latched on. She hopes to connect with her father, or news of him, in El Paso.”
“Where’s your problem with that?”
“Not a problem one, sir. How fortunate for you, not knowing what it’s like to be hungry.”
“You don’t know that.”
“True. What I do know is, the Universe favored my mother and me in the form of a dear old gypsy who took us in when my father turned us out. Thus, I owed the universe a favor, so I have looked after Patience Sweet. It ain’t been easy. Somebody latches on; they have to be provided for. That one, she got a toothache. That meant a dentist. She got her womanly, it ruint her dress. I had to buy another. She eats like a horse. You ever fed a horse?”
This tale of desperation had a ring of truth to it, not that cockamamie oil nonsense. “How long has she been…‘latched’ to you?”
“Six months.”
Half a year. Hundreds of nights where Merkel begrudged every spent cent. He was now at the point to barter her services. Good God. The villain probably defiled her himself. Grant had to know: “What exactly are you offering, should I win?”
“Whatever you wish between now and breakfast’s end. You meet me back here at, say, ten in the morning. Treat her kindly, sir. Leave no visible scars that will ruin her for the Juarez market.”
Grant looked at the girl. She was listening to the exchange, the poor thing. He turned back to the man who would sell her, as if she were a hunk of meat. “I’m to wager a half thousand gold-backed dollars to spend the night with a scared little girl?”
“That’s the size of it. And you left out ‘virgin.’” “What does she have to say about that?”
“She won’t mind. She takes what comes to her.”

That thought further turned Grant’s stomach. He leaned toward Merkel to whisper, “Is she simpleminded?”
“Pretty much. Has been since her baby sister died while in her care and keeping. Broke her spirit.”
Grant wondered if anything good had ever happened to poor little Patience Sweet.
Merkel was saying, “I’ve offered her to you for the night, because I know in my heart that Patience will sleep in her cozy bed at the Antlers Hotel tonight. And I’ll have my thousand dollars when I reach the Rio Grande.”
“What about her father?”
“If he has my asking price, I’ll do the right thing and let him have her.
I won’t even ask for the full thousand.”
“Aren’t you the gallant?” Grant sneered. “Tell me something. What makes you think she won’t have something to say about this?”
Merkel rolled his stogie from one side of his mouth to the other. He leaned his chair back, propping himself up to grin. “That’s the beauty of it. Patience can’t speak. She’s a mute. She does as she’s told. Except to stay away from me.”
He’s playing me for a fool. The issue became a case of betting five hundred dollars to save her from white slavery.
Grant hitched a thumb toward the exit door. “Forget  it.  Get  the  hell out of here.”
“Wait just a minute, sir.” Chair legs banged to the floor, sawdust swirling. “If you don’t take my offer, that means you just want to keep all the money I’ve wagered this evening.”
“This is an honest game. You played. You won for a while. You started losing.” When that didn’t seem to sink in, Grant asked, “Do you not know there are laws against selling women’s favors?”

It was then that he caught sight of the girl again. Standing now, the mending at her feet, her fingers were a steeple beneath her chin, begging his help. She mouthed the word “please.” He knew right then and there he had to win the hand.


Martha Hix grew up in Texas and didn’t mind listening to stories about how her ancestors had been in the place for a long, long time. Well, in Texas that just meant more than a hundred years. This weird kid soaked up the stories and became an ardent student of family and general history, which came in handy when she took to writing both fiction and non-fiction. Eventually, her romance novels were translated into many foreign languages, some of them very foreign, like Japanese, Greek, and Turkish. On the home front, she lives in the fabulous Texas Hill Country with her husband and their spoiled four-legged kids. Visit her on the web at marthahix.com.
Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!









Posted by at 2 comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)

View My Stats!

View My Stats

Pageviews past week

SNIPPET_HTML_V2.TXT
Tweet