βMy brother came home with such fascinating stories when
he studied with Father Ciaran.β She smoothed her skirt
and stared into the distance. βI suppose they lodged in
my imagination along with Motherβs tales.β
Isaac snorted. βWhere they are more romantic than real
life. Take my word on that.β
βHow many have you fought in?β
He studied his nails but she had most of his attention.
He willed her to come closer, and scolded himself for it.
You canβt ravish her yet. βThis will be my twentieth.β
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew he didnβt speak
of border wars, religious wars, or clan skirmishes. βIt
need not happen,β she said.
βIs that so? How can you tell?β
βI wonβt let it.β She touched the knife at her belt. βMy
fatherβs blood has been shed. Itβs enough to strike a
balance.β
He gazed up at her through the dark night. Did she
prophesy? Or was this a mere hope? Damn Cyreth for being
inside when he needed a clear reading on the situation!
Maybe she would speak more. He took a chance and asked,
βWhat balance would that be? What do you see?β
She took a breath and let it out, waving her hand through
the air. βI see little. A battle.β After a momentβs
silence, she shook herself. βBut itβs no more than Mother
tells. Whether or not it comes, who knows?β
βWhat if it did?β he asked.
βIf it does,β she said, angling her chin, βwhat does it
matter? I canβt stop it.β
The moonlight glinting off her eyes accentuated her
innocence. He rose to see them better, but still
maintained his distance. βNo. But you can minimize the
damage.β
βAs if thatβs as easy as kissing you.β
Isaac blinked and did as she asked.