Chapter 7

The Mirror

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S he woke to find his face inches from hers. It should have alarmed her, but instead it felt like the continuation of a dream. Not that she ever dreamt.

It was dim, the light from the fire filtering through the yellow bed curtains. A servant must have come and gone, lighting the fire and withdrawing discreetly. Robert seemed to be deep in sleep and she was only half awake, which she sleepily decided was a very agreeable state of affairs.

"Robert."

She meant to say it sharply, to see if he was close to waking, but her voice was husky with sleep. He did not stir in the least, so she allowed her eyes roam over his face and take in all the tiny details she had determinedly ignored. His lips were full – like a woman's, she used to tease him – and his nose a perfectly straight line. Those features were exactly the same, but the rest of him had changed with the years. A spray of lines radiated from the corners of his eyes, carved deep by smiles and sun. There were flecks of silver in the hair at his temples, and his skin was a little darker, the flesh not as tight across his cheekbones. She had thought it impossible that the beauty of his youth could have faded into something even more attractive, but the truth was undeniable: he was one of those men who was more handsome with age.

"Robert!" She managed it louder this time.

He answered her with a loud snore. It pulled a smile from her, because it made her world unrecognizable in the most laughable way. There was a man in her bed, for the first time in more than a decade, snoring. And it was Robert, who above all men was never supposed to be there. She found herself leaning into the smell of stale drink that hung around him, breathing deep. She let herself imagine what it would feel like to wrap her legs around him, to press the heat that grew between her legs against him, how he would awaken and respond.

The rising lust woke her fully. Her mind was dizzy with the sudden welter of feelings. It was too much all at once, the heat and the hunger and the nearness of him. She must have reason, or she would drown in it. She closed her eyes against the sight of him and forced herself to think. Clarity was key. Think. She must not hide from herself, not if she wanted to succeed. She wanted him, yes. She wanted him even in the foulness of his morning breath and his drunken snoring, which meant that her old infatuation was not as dead as she had thought. It was not dead at all. It coursed through her, a terrible longing in every beat of her heart. Simple lust was nothing next to that.

Poison, she reminded herself, the blade, an accident. She had a purpose, and old infatuations would only hinder her. She dwelt on the thought of Roger Mortimer's many offenses. She imagined him dead until her mind was calm and clear again.

Then she opened her eyes and saw the tip of her braid clutched between Robert's fingers, and all calm and clarity was lost. There was only an unbearable sweetness, a giddiness that swirled through her, an impossible hope leaping up in her. She remembered this feeling. God save her, she had missed it.

She pressed the tip of her finger gently to the slight cleft in his chin. She looked at his mouth, remembered the sight of it kissing her belly as the sunlight filtered through the trees above them.

"Robin," she whispered, "my Robin." All the transgressions she had committed in her life, all the things that might send her soul to Hell, flitted through her mind. She had confessed them all, except for him. "You were my favorite sin."

She might have kissed him then, because the little scratch of his morning beard was so tempting against her finger, but she looked up to find he had woken.

His eyes hadn't changed either, brown and liquid, fixed on her. For a moment, she saw only the sleepy surprise in them. But a look of comprehension came into his face, and she did not know if it was because he had heard her words or because she was touching him. She looked away from his eyes, to her finger at his chin. Slowly, she pulled her hand away. When his lips parted as though to speak, she turned away and sat up, pushing the bed curtains apart and bringing her feet to the floor, and started to walk away.

But he still held her braid. She felt the pull of it, of him, as she stood on the floor with her back to their bed. The air she stood in was cold, all the warmth behind her.

"Let me go, Robert," she said softly.

He did not. She resisted a shiver, holding herself rigid against the tension in her braid as she listened to his breathing and waited. Let go let go, she thought, praying that he would not say anything. She feared she might be cruel, if he did – and she did not want to be cruel to him. But finally, after a long moment, she felt the braid swing free and come to rest against her back.

She pushed away the thought of him and stepped further into the cold chamber, considering how vulnerable was a man in bed, and how that might be the surest way to murder Mortimer.

I sabella Mortimer was tall and stately, easy to find in the small crowd of ladies despite her subdued dress. She wore very little jewelry and seemed nearly as indifferent to the talk of the ladies as she was to the needlework in her hand. Eluned could not help being reminded of her own daughter. Save that Isabella was much older, it might be Gwenllian sitting there bored, a head taller than all the other women. Except that Gwenllian would not be able to hide her irritation, and would never look so at ease in a dress.

Or perhaps Eluned was wrong. It struck her again, with force, that her daughter was no longer the girl of her memories. Even now, Gwenllian undoubtedly sat among her own ladies, heavy with child and quite happy to wear a dress. The fierce warrior was gone, replaced with a docile wife. One more loss.

"How happy I am to find you here, Isabella," she said pleasantly when the moment was right. "And grown so much since last I saw you."

Eluned watched a crease of confusion appear between Isabella's eyes, but she did not say more. She preferred to let Isabella feel a moment's disadvantage.

"I fear I must confess I do not know you, my lady."

There was something in Isabella's expression – or perhaps a lack of something. Eluned could not identify it, though it felt familiar.

"It would be a wonder, did you remember me. I was barely more than a child myself, when I came to your wedding. I am Eluned de Lascaux, who was the lady of Ruardean."

"Oh. Oh yes." Isabella reached out her hands as though to embrace her, then remembered herself. "How glad I am to meet you."

Eluned schooled her face to show none of the immediate suspicion she felt. There was no reason for Isabella Mortimer to be eager to meet her. Yet there was an absolute sincerity in her. If it was an act, then Isabella was a very great actor. Considering the family she came from, it was more than possible that she was unusually deceptive. But Eluned decided it would be most expedient to respond in kind with warmth and eagerness.

They took a place near the fire together and talked, while the other women of lesser rank gave them space and privacy. No doubt they were all desperately trying to hear every word, but it only took a wave of the hand and a meaningful look at the musician, who repositioned himself strategically and interfered with any attempts to overhear them. They exchanged the obvious pleasantries, and it was plain Isabella was not inclined to the kind of empty chatter that was so common to court ladies. Eluned was glad to move straight to a more interesting subject.

"You will know that Christopher Manton is like a brother to my husband, and so must I count him as my friend," she began. "Will you tell me, then, how fares his son in your care?"

"He does very well, and so he has told his father and mother in his letters to them." She was polite, but a hardness crept into her voice. "The boy is treated with honor."

"To be sure, and never would I doubt it from a house as great as Mortimer." It was marvelous, how perfectly she said it. She almost convinced herself. "Yet his father fears the boy is away from his own family too long. You know that my son was sent to foster with Lancaster when he was even younger?"

"I know it."

"And he did not forget me, or his father. So I have said to Manton and he has heard me. Still I think he fears the boy will be gone so long that he will grow to manhood in isolation."

"His fate is not in my hands. That responsibility belongs to my brother."

Now Eluned knew what she had seen in Isabella's face, so plainly did it show when she spoke of her brother's authority. Bitterness. Resentment. The gall of it, of having the reins wrested from her hands.

"Your father put the boy in your charge, I was told," she murmured, and watched the telltale flex of a tiny muscle in Isabella's face that told her the other woman was gritting her teeth.

"He did. For years he gave our stronghold at Wigmore into my keeping, and everything in it, including what hostages we held. But on his death last summer, my brother Edmund took control of all. Decisions about such matters as hostages were never mine to make. Now I am not even consulted."

She clearly regretted that last admission, so Eluned was content to pretend she had not heard it. Eluned flicked a glance toward where the other ladies sat, all of them watching Isabella's tense face.

"It is a rare man who will gladly let a woman rule in his stead." Eluned let a smile curl her lips as she spoke. "Or a mad one."

She was rewarded with quick huff of amusement, and an answering wry smile. She had not given much thought to Isabella Mortimer at all over the years, except to consider her one more in this clan of cutthroats. But their castle at Wigmore had been of critical importance in the campaign to conquer Wales, sending food and weapons to the English as they fought for years. If Isabella had truly ruled there, then she should be Eluned's enemy.

She did not feel like an enemy.

"You had the keeping of Ruardean for many more years than I held Wigmore."

Eluned nodded. "To any other I would say it was God's will, who commanded my husband to serve elsewhere. But to you I will say it was the will of men. A weak man left it in my care, and his strong son now comes to take it back." She shrugged. "But it is men who are meant to defend fortresses, not women."

"Do you say that is God's will too?"

"I say it is what men call God's will, and so long as men rule on earth and God in Heaven, then what you or I think matters very little to either of them. I also say a woman is wise to step gracefully out of their way as they lurch along the paths to power."

That gained her a real smile, and the first twinge of shame in her breast. Would she befriend this woman, only to slay her brother? In her mind she tried to weigh the possibilities and outcomes in her usual way, but no clear answer came. Befriend Isabella, gain valuable information about the Mortimers, insights that would help her in her plan – maybe even help Kit, a good and worthy man. But also: befriend Isabella, deceive her daily, hide lethal intentions behind a friendly face, and then perhaps one day watch her learn of Eluned's betrayal.

She watched as Isabella changed the subject, talking at ease now about her falcon and wondering if the weather would be temperate enough to fly it tomorrow. It struck her that they were not so very different. Isabella was but a few years younger. She too had been widowed, though it was many years ago – a decade or more without a husband. She had also held a great stronghold for years, only to have that power taken from her. The fighting between England and Wales killed her father, just as it had killed Uncle Rhys.

She is loyal to Edward; she aided in the fight against the Welsh , Eluned reminded herself. But how could she condemn her for being loyal to her family? For performing the duties that fell to her, which were given into her hands by the men who held her fate in theirs? It was no more than Eluned had done. And she saw, now, that Isabella too held herself at a careful distance, the hint of calculation in nearly everything she said.

This was why she felt so familiar: they had both been shaped in the same way, by the same forces. And at the end of it all, here they both sat, discarded, among the ladies embroidering at Edward's court.

"Come," Eluned said. "Let us walk out to the hawk house now and I will see your falcon. It is not too cold outside, and I grow weary of these walls."

She would be careful. She would acquaint herself enough with Isabella to learn a little of her thoughts on her brother Roger, but not so friendly that it would feel like a betrayal. Perhaps she would be lucky, and find that Isabella had no love for her brothers after all.

It was as they walked through the brisk air past the stables that she saw a flush come up in Isabella's face. She was quickening her step, her face turned down to the ground, but Eluned saw the flick of her eyes toward a man who stood with a horse before the stables. He was transfixed, staring at Isabella's rapidly retreating form.

Eluned waited until they had entered the hawk house and she had said a few admiring words about the bird before asking.

"Who was that man who caused your step to hurry?" Isabella was no green girl, and yet she twisted her hands together in agitation. Eluned shook her head lightly. "I would not pry, Isabella, nor would I ask confidences of you. I only saw that you were not best pleased to see him, and would be sure you have no cause to fear him."

"No," she answered. "I do not fear him. He is no one of importance, and hardly a villain. He was friend to my father for many years. I only did not wish to speak to him now."

The blush was returned to her face, making her quite pretty despite the haughty look of indifference she wore. So it was love, then.

"Will you walk with me again tomorrow?" Eluned asked her. "If the weather holds, we can fly this lovely bird."

"Yes," said Isabella, visibly relaxing. "Yes, that is much more agreeable to me than any other entertainment the court can offer, I think." She paused a moment, burrowing her hands into the thick wool of the cloak she wore. "I would have my nephew come with us. He has a passion for falcons."

Eluned caught her breath, then hid the tiny sound of surprise by bringing her cold hands to her lips and blowing on them. She spoke lightly, taking care not to seem too curious. "Nephew? I did not know your brothers had children."

"As they are neither of them married yet, you may say they should not have them." Isabella smiled and turned to watch an austringer return a goshawk to its perch. "Three nephews, all baseborn, one of Edmund and two of Roger. Edmund's boy has traveled with me."

"It is good of them, to admit to their bastards and bring them up as Mortimers."

"Their care, too, has been entrusted to me." Isabella slipped her arm through Eluned's as they left the hawk house, a gesture of familiarity that might be sincere fondness or pure manipulation. "Roger is especially fond of his sons, and it has put him in a temper that I allowed his boys to stay at Wigmore to pass the season with Robin Manton. My nephews are great friends with him."

Eluned's smile was automatic, but it took her a few moments to formulate a response. "His father will be happy to learn his son has companions. And he will know of your kind solicitude as well. He has heard a rumor that the boy would be given into Roger's care."

"It is my intention to ask Roger to allow him to remain in my care, for there is no lady of equal rank in his household. By Mary, there are no ladies at all – nor even a household, if truth is told. Better he waits until he has made one before he takes on the education of children."

She said no more, and Eluned bit her tongue against enquiring further. So many questions, so many possibilities – but there was time enough to learn it all. For now, it was enough to know Roger Mortimer's sister did not want him to take custody of the boy. It was a great deal more than enough to know he had children he loved. That was a great gift indeed.

I n the hall, she caught sight of Robert immediately. It was chance that every time she stepped into a place where he was, no matter how crowded, her eyes found him. It must be chance. Or maybe her eyes had learned the trick all those years ago, and had never unlearned it. When he noticed her, she quickly looked to Kit Manton who stood next to him, and then her gaze moved restlessly over the scattering of people around the hall.

It was late in the afternoon, and servants were setting up tables in preparation for the evening meal. Robert and Kit were near one of the hearths, each holding two cups of wine. She made her way to them.

"Do my lords have such a great thirst?" she asked.

Kit held a cup out to her. "We make a study of all the wines on offer in England's finest household. Will you give us your opinion? I say there are none that match the quality of Robert's wine."

She took the cup and looked into the deep red liquid as she addressed Robert. "But what think you, my lord de Lascaux? Surely it is your opinion that carries most weight in this matter."

When he did not answer, she looked up at him with raised brows. There was that soft look there, as though she had said something he found endearing. She could feel herself grow warm in response, thinking of how they had parted this morning. The edge of hostility that had been in him since their wedding night was gone entirely.

"It is your opinion we seek," said Robert easily, holding one of his cups out to her. She took it, and was glad of the excuse it gave her to look down at her hands once more. "You hold what we have deemed the two finest wines in Edward's stores."

"Excepting your own," Kit interjected.

"Excepting the de Lascaux wine, yes, which my lady has already tasted." He inclined his head to her. "So you will make an excellent judge. In your left hand is a wine whose cost is only a little less than ours."

She took a swallow of it and found it too tart for her liking. "It is unfair to serve it without spices," she told them. "The taste suffers for the lack of them."

The men looked at each other a moment, and then back to her. Robert gave an impatient wave, urging her to sample the other wine. She brought it to her lips to sip, and found herself taking another, deeper swallow. It was delicious.

"You see, she may try to spare my pride, but her face tells the truth." Robert was grinning now, a boyish satisfaction in his face.

"Do you say it is better than Robert's wine, lady?" Kit asked her, a challenge in his voice.

It was clear her opinion would settle a dispute between them. She thought Kit Manton was more proud of the de Lascaux wines than even Robert was. Clearly she must endeavor to be both honest and careful with her words, for such a very grave question.

"I will not say that it is better, but I will say that if you told me it came from Robert's vineyards, I would believe you. The flavor is different, though." They both still looked at her, expecting more. She wanted to laugh at them, they were so like boys who waited to be told which of them had won a great prize. But she had no prize, nor had she ready words to describe the difference between wines. She shrugged. "It is so rich. It is heavy on the tongue, but not too strong."

Robert nodded. "It is a better flavor."

"It is not," Kit was insistent.

"It is from Spain," Robert was saying to Eluned, ignoring Kit. "Not far across the mountains from–"

"It is not better!" Kit's words overrode whatever Robert would say, and they began to talk over each other, quarrelling about it. She was put in mind of her cousins when they were young boys, and almost thought the men would resort to a wrestle in the dirt until one cried mercy. She watched them a while, and was considering asking them how much of the wine they had drunk to have reached such a state of absurdity when a laugh escaped her. She bit her lips against it, but it was too late. They had stopped their arguing to look at her.

She turned to Kit. "Verily, sir, my lord husband has the right of it." She was unable to stop the smile that unfurled across her face at his dismayed look. "The first you gave me is a wine whose flavor is so tart it needs a wealth of spices to make it agreeable. It is inferior to Robert's wine, which needs no such correction. But this Spanish wine is so rich it overwhelms the senses." She turned back to Robert, pleased in spite of herself at understanding where his friend did not. "You have done it a-purpose. By Mary, I did not think you to have a mind so given to commerce, my lord."

He gave a little bow of acknowledgement, delight in his eyes. "I did not think to see the dimple in your cheek again in this life, lady."

She turned her face down, flustered, glad she held a cup in each hand and so could not twist them together as Isabella had done. If it would cool her cheeks, she might drink down more of the wine only to cover the confusion in her. "There will be no lack of buyers for Robert's wine," she said quickly to Kit, explaining.

"Yet you say the Spanish is better?" he asked, still confused.

"A better flavor," corrected Eluned. "It is a wine to savor on the tongue, in slow and small mouthfuls, for very important occasions or guests. But Robert's wine is the better to sell in great quantities to wealthy households, because the taste is far superior to other common wines yet it can be drunk as easily as any ale and served with any food. I would gladly stock the buttery with it, and not the Spanish wine."

Robert gave her that crooked little smile again, lines creasing the corners of his eyes. "And I will gladly give my lady wife a very good price on it. Haps I might even give it at no cost, if she will smile so again."

He was trying to flirt with her. She pressed her lips together, unsure if it was a laugh or a sob she was suppressing. Robert de Lascaux was flirting with her.

It took only a moment, one quick breath, until she could turn to Kit again and say, "But I agree with you. If I must say one wine is better, I will say it is the de Lascaux wine. Flavor is but one consideration, and not the most important. I am more mercenary than that."

Kit Manton was scrutinizing her as closely as she felt sure Robert was. Whatever might be said next was lost in the appearance of Robert's brother Simon, who indicated he wished to speak to Robert alone. When they had walked off a little way, leaving Eluned alone with Kit, she set both cups of wine down on a bench nearby and spent a moment looking down into the ruby liquid.

It would make Robert very wealthy, this wine he had produced. Likely he would never admit to it, but she was sure he had spent years in the planning of it: cultivating the crops, finding the perfect blend of grapes, improving the yields until he could be sure of adequate quantities to import here. And now it would be served at the king's own Christmas court, where half the noble households of England would taste it. She wondered if his friend even knew the extent of his hopes.

But she did not ask his friend about wine. Instead, she said, "I have spoken with Isabella Mortimer about your son."

Then she told him everything she had learned of how the boy was cared for, how Edmund Mortimer would make any decisions about his release, how Isabella wished the boy to stay in her care. The urge to question Kit more closely about his dealings with the Mortimers pulled at her, but she resisted it. It seemed to her an ill omen, how very often in her life the ambitions of that family had thwarted her own. It was better that Kit Manton try his luck against them without her interference.

Even as she thought it, Kit asked, "Will you not ask her why I am still so suspect they will hold my son? If I could but know the reason–"

"She will give you the truth of it sooner than she gives it to me," she said, not sorry for the brusqueness of her tone. "Nor do I think she knows any truth, but only guesses at her brother's aims. This is men's work, all of it. Taking him, holding him, releasing him – it is all done by the hands of the men, not the sister."

He did not take offense. He only looked at her, thoughtful, until she saw him decide she was not lying or hiding anything. In the same moment, she realized she was in fact hiding something from him. Not by intent, but by instinct. If she were honest with herself and with him, the simplest way to gain the advantage was to have Robert confront Roger Mortimer about all this in the presence of the king, where a straightforward answer must be given. It would force the Mortimers' hand, deprive them of whatever game they were playing.

But it would anger them, and their spite would fall on Robert. The thought of it chilled her blood.

"It is better you deal directly with the Mortimer brothers," she said to Kit now, forcing her lips to form the words through the dread that had clenched her jaw tight. "Assure them they have naught to fear of you, that you act only in good faith with them. I can give you no better counsel than you waste no time at this."

Kit's gaze shifted to just over her shoulder, something catching his interest behind her.

"Let us call it a fair sign, then, that Roger is arrived even as you say the words, and earlier than expected."

She turned, the sound of greetings filling the air around her. At the entrance to the hall stood Roger Mortimer, tall and barrel-chested.

She had thought the sight of him would fill her with emotion. With fear or hatred, or perhaps even doubt. Instead she felt only a strange calm as he raised a hand to hail someone across the hall, as he reached for the ale brought to him by a serving girl. She only wondered distantly, even as he leered at the girl, if he had entered this same way more than a year ago, with Llewellyn's head in his arms. Did he gloat of his treachery? Did he present it with ceremony to his king, or did he let it dangle from one hand as he reached, laughing, for his cup?

Now he was putting out an arm, grasping at the serving girl. A spike of alarm pierced the numb as she watched the girl twist to avoid his hands. She was too young to see what Eluned saw: that running would only make him determined to catch her. But then some men approached, calling his name, drawing his attention and allowing the girl to slip away. She was a smart little mouse, darting into the shadows and putting a fair distance between herself and his hands.

The blade , Eluned decided. Poison if she could not get close. An accident would be her last choice. But she hoped, watching the girl scurry away, that it could be the blade.

The thought, as ever, soothed her. She turned to the bench where she had set the wine, trying to remember which was which, choosing one at random.

"I think Simon has been too modest," Kit was saying, his eyes still on the group of men surrounding Roger Mortimer. "Of course he would know Mortimer, but they look to me like near companions. He never said so."

Eluned turned to see Mortimer's hand out, grasping Robert's in greeting, both of them smiling, talking. Beside them stood William, her son. The venom rose up in her, quick and sharp. She would rend him to pieces with her own hands here and now, with hate choking her and the foul breath of fear hot on her neck.

"My lady."

Kit's hand was on her wrist, a sudden move to hold her hand steady as he tried to pull the cup away from her tight fist. The wine had spilled, splashing onto her skirt. She made her fingers loosen the grip, made herself mumble an apology for her clumsiness. She looked across the hall to watch the men speaking pleasantly to each other, and was reminded in a flash of who they were.

They were Norman. Robert and William were Norman lords, favorites of the king. She need not fear for them. Mortimer was not their rival nor their enemy.

Even as the realization flooded her with relief, she felt an urgent need to be away from them, alone. It had come over her so quickly, the murderous intent. Her mind was now filled with images of Roger Mortimer laid out before a jeering crowd, his face as the axe fell, hacking him into quarters. It was not horror that she felt at the image, but a keen hunger.

I am become vile , she thought, with a sinking in the pit of her stomach.

"I must find a fresh gown," she said to Kit, turning away. "And so must you find dry shoes." For the wine had soaked his feet, she now saw.

He gave a warm smile, so kind and alive. He had probably never thirsted for blood in his life.

"Aye, I would be more presentable before I meet this man I must make friend," Kit agreed. He gave a little frown of concern and asked, "Are you well, lady?"

She could not pretend she was, so she did not try. "My stomach is unsettled. I will... I should rest."

He steered her around the small puddle of wine she had made, leading her out of the hall. They passed a small knot of courtiers who lingered near the stairs to the minstrels' gallery. The man that Isabella had blushed at was there, asking a boy with a lute if he knew any love songs from Andalusia. She waited until they were well past him, then paused in her step.

"Do you know that man?" she asked Kit.

"In the green cloak? Aye, he has some little land to the east of mine. He is Robert de Hastang."

She thought of Isabella, hands twisting, her mouth tight as she hurried away from this handsome man.

"She has a Robert too," she murmured.

She became aware of Kit's scrutiny as she stood there, rooted to the spot. Finally, she looked to him and said, "You would do well to make a friend of him, I think." Then she swept past him and made her way to her rooms.

In the wide seat below the window casing, she curled with her uncle's psalter. She did not eat the meat or bread her ladies brought to her, nor drink the wine. She had them pour out some mead, which she sipped slowly to ease the sickness that had settled in her belly. Though the night was mild and the wind low, she did not pull the tapestry away from the window so that she may have a glimpse of the stars.

Instead she looked down at the prayer book, occasionally opening it to scan the words written there. The way of the wicked will perish , it read. There was no comfort for her in the painted pages. It was left to her to contemplate what she was becoming, what stain the sorrow was leaving on her soul and how helpless she was in the face of its spread. She thought of her uncle's hands holding this book in prayer. She remembered Madog's face, the light in his eyes and the smile on his lips when she had asked him about his love.

It was late when Robert came into the room. She had changed into her warmest night robe and pulled the heavy, fur-lined blanket up to her shoulders as she sat in the window seat, intending to make it her bed. He said nothing, only crossed the room to pause at her side. She did not look up.

After a silent moment he put out a hand and picked up the end of her braid, brushing the hairs against his thumb. He waited like that, a light and questioning hold that she answered with her stillness, her refusal to look up. Then he walked into the bedroom, leaving her alone. She heard him climb into the bed.

This is how it would be, she knew. He would wait patiently for her. He had seen her desire for him, the places where her resistance began to erode away, but he would not take her. As he had done once before, he would wait for her to reach for him. He thought she was emerging from a darkness, that she would turn naturally from it. He would wait for her heart to slip into his hands again, because he still believed that her heart was whole and uncorrupted.