The princess sank, still weeping, into a cushioned chair. While a woman-in-waiting poured her a cup of wine, Daymonde sat on the edge of a sofa and glanced back at Captain Strathmuir, guarding the door of the private parlor. This was the most privacy he could expect.

Where to begin?

While Glenmarr’s daughter sipped and tried to compose herself, Daymonde studied her. Fiona. Shadows lay beneath her eyes, contrasting with the absolute whiteness of her face. A finely woven netting tamed the blaze of her hair. A dark gown shrouded her curves—more rounded than he remembered.

She is young, but will grow, Glenmarr had said. Indeed, she had already.

After hours of effectively blocking everyone else’s thoughts and emotions, Daymonde surrendered to the inevitable and unclenched his Gift. Sorrow radiated from Fiona, so profound he nearly doubled over and wept.

“My—my lady,” he said. “I am sorry.”

WINDOWS HAS DETECTED AN ERROR IN THE PROGRAM.
SEND ERROR REPORT.
DON’T SEND ERROR REPORT.

Julie groaned at the two little boxes that popped up on her computer screen. Send an error report or not? How should I know? Who does the report go to, anyway? She imagined fifty people in a windowless room cackling as they deleted error reports received from around the world.

It’s bad enough being home alone. Now even my computer has abandoned me.

The ringing telephone interrupted her pity party.

“Hi, Julie, it’s me. Busy?” Denise asked.

“A little,” Julie said, brushing back a wayward strand of auburn hair.

“Gary and I are going to the movies. How about joining us?”