From the back cover:
Having abdicated the throne of Lystra in favor of his adopted son, Henry, Ares travels to the monastery/leprosarium he had established, the Sanctum. Ares has heard disturbing reports that the Master of the Sanctum has converted it to his own private domain. Not to be left behind, Nicole follows.

With the cooperation of Nicole and the Second Oswald, Ares acts as poltergeist to the Master’s rule at the Sanctum. But when Henry’s sister Renée misplaces some property, she goes to the Sanctum to recover it—and there discovers who is fomenting rebellion against the young Surchatain.


CHAPTER ONE

With sunrise spread over the rolling hills to her left, Nicole set out from the palace of Westford on a sturdy dun mare. She took to the market road, sparse of traffic at this hour, and kicked the mare to a leisurely lope—as fast as Nicole could compel her to go. She was leaving everything of a life of privilege behind: her status as Surchataine of Lystra, her fine clothes, her servants, her newly married daughters. The only part of her life that lay ahead on this road was her heart—her husband Ares, who had preceded her by only hours.

At the sound of thudding hoofbeats behind her, Nicole reined up and twisted in the saddle. And she saw a large man on a great warhorse pursuing her determinedly. The muscled flanks of the animal rippled under its burden; its head bobbed in the effort of producing the speed its rider required.

The man himself was unconvincingly attired in a coarse monk’s habit, too small and too tight, that rode up over the threadbare breeches on his thighs. The robe, incidentally, was identical to the one that engulfed Nicole, who wore a simple cotton dress underneath.

As escape was now impossible, she waited for her pursuer to come abreast of her. “Surchataine,” he said, saluting gravely.

“Oswald, what are you doing?” she exhaled in a gentle reprimand. He was the senior of two Seconds to the Commander of the Lystran army.

“With the Commander’s permission, Lady, I have delegated my duties to the Second Paramore. You shall not travel to the monastery unescorted.”

“But Oswald,” she murmured, eyes glittering, “there is a flaw in your disguise. You look nothing like a monk.” With heavy features, curling hair that was prematurely grey, and a short, bushy beard, he looked like nothing but a veteran soldier.

“Lady, you look less like a monk than I,” he responded.

This was true. There was no chance of hiding her feminine features, even at the mature age of 34. And neither had she trimmed her long auburn hair, given her priority of pleasing Ares over maintaining a disguise.

There was a further giveaway in their disguises due to ignorance. Both she and Oswald carried behind their saddles something that should have immediately disqualified their en-trance into the brotherhood they were about to invade: satchels of provisions prepared by the finest kitchen staff in the Southern Continent.

Smiling, she turned the mare’s head to resume her southward journey. The monastery/leprosarium that Ares had built, known as the Sanctum, was half a day’s ride from Westford, within view of the coast. “So how shall we two unlikely monks worm our way inside, Oswald?”

Guiding his horse to walk beside hers, he mulled, “It may help to know why Surchatain Ares chose to start the Procession of Unlikely Monks to begin with, Lady.”

“Oswald, Henry is Surchatain,” she reminded him.

Ares, after the last of a series of attempts on his life, abdicated the throne to concentrate on uncovering the would-be assassin and his conspirators. Twenty-four-year-old Henry, raised by Ares though not his own, had been vested with the rulership less than a month ago. And a few days following, he married Ares’ daughter Sophie.

“It would not do to salute Ares upon finding him at the monastery,” Nicole added.

“No, Lady, it would not,” Oswald agreed gravely, glancing up and down the empty road, because a guardian kept on watch.

“As to why he went,” she sighed, “you know that Father Birondo, who has been serving at the palace for—how many years?”

“Nine,” Oswald answered immediately. “Nine years. Surchatain Ares appointed Father Birondo after removing that treacherous lackey of Lady Auer’s. She put her nephew up to challenge the Surchatain for the throne, and her priest acted as spy for them.”

Nicole stared at her companion in mild awe of his recall, then resumed, “Yes, well—dear Father Birondo is one of the Order of Preaching Brethren, who now serve at the Sanctum. Since Ares had so much time on his hands while pretending to be dead, he spoke a great deal with Father Birondo and a few of the other monks.

“They told him that they had grave concerns for the well-being of the Sanctum under their Master, Father Manworren. Thus Ares decided to go see for himself what the situation was—and give Henry a chance to settle into his position without interference.”

Oswald’s heavy brows drew down. “Did he not tell you what these concerns were?”

“Not specifically,” she admitted, with a trace of unease.

“And the Surchatain had no objection to my lady’s joining him?” he asked pointedly.

She puckered her lips. “Not once I explained to him that I was coming regardless.”

The shadow of a smile crossed Oswald’s face, then he squinted in thought again. “What does the Surchatain know of this Manworren? And why did he appoint him Master of the Sanctum?”

“Ares did not appoint him; he preferred not to interfere in the internal affairs of the order, especially after the uproar when Ares decreed that all petitions for anathema had to go through Westford. He was much afraid of its abuse,” she said.

“The practice lends itself to be abused,” Oswald observed.

“I suppose it does. At any rate,” she continued, “I assume that this Manworren rose to his rank in the customary manner, but as to what he is doing now—well, that is what Ares wanted to see.”

Oswald did not reply right away. He was guiding his horse to the side of the road to allow the passage of the vegetable seller’s one-horse cart en route to the palace at Westford.

The vegetable seller, a serious businesswoman, saw and recognized the Surchataine and the Second, but acknowledged neither. Her only concern this morning was the price that Georges, the old dinner master, would offer for September turnips and overripe melons.

Once she had passed, Oswald repositioned his horse beside Nicole’s. “Does my lady know how the Surchatain proposed to gain entrance for himself without being recognized?”

It was a good question. The deep scar that cleft the right side of Ares’ face made him known by sight almost anywhere in Lystra or Scylla.

Recently, in fact, a wanderer who was of middle age and sturdily built, having been told that he resembled the Surchatain, took it upon himself to slash his own face in approximation of Ares’ legendary scar, and allowed it to heal open. Then he stole himself some black clothes somewhat comparable to Ares’ dress blacks and began traveling up and down the coast impersonating the Surchatain.

News of the imposter soon found its way to Westford, but as he was apparently using his disguise for the sole purpose of eating excellent meals, drinking fine wines, and bedding many women, Ares declined to assign already taxed resources to tracking him down.

After succeeding with this deception for some months, the imposter was finally killed by the jealous husband of one of his dupes. The husband, upon traveling to Westford to claim the throne, was highly vexed to find it already occupied by the genuine article.

“Ares didn’t mention how he would get around being recognized,” Nicole admitted, downcast.

Oswald eyed her. “That does not sound like the Surchatain, to leave such a detail to chance.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed.

“Therefore, I would say that he intended no disguise.”

She looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“That he intended to present himself to Father Manworren as Ares,” Oswald said. “It is rare enough for a living Surchatain to abdicate willingly. The last time it happened, according to Counselor Vogelsong, was because the Surchatain desired to enter a life of contemplation, as his youngest son had done before him. So it has happened. A man reaches a certain point of life that he desires only rest.” Though no one knew Ares’ exact age, he was 51, and for the last 17 years he had borne the weight of Lystra on his shoulders.

In recounting this bit of history to the Second, however, the Counselor had failed to mention the sequel to the story of the abdication. After six months of peaceful monastic life, the former Surchatain got wind of the fact that his hand-picked selection for the throne, his firstborn, had renounced his religion and compelled his subjects to do the same.

So the old Surchatain laid aside his robe and donned armor. He defeated his son in battle, blinded him, put him in prison, and installed his son the monk on the throne. The father then returned to an untroubled life of contemplation.

At Oswald’s conjecture, Nicole felt a pain in the pit of her stomach. If her husband intended to enter a life of monastic contemplation—entailing celibacy—he had not told his wife this. “Ares assured me it was to be a ruse.”

“Then that it is, Lady,” Oswald said. After a moment’s silence, he added, “It would be helpful to know all that the Surchatain confided to my lady.”

Nicole thought back, watching the shifting sheen of her horse’s mane under the early morning sunlight. “Not a great deal, really. He spoke in the most general terms about—the responsibilities of power, and walking by the light given us. He seemed to feel that because he was told there were problems not only by Father Birondo, whom he trusted, but several other monks, that the compulsion was laid on him to do something about it, especially as he was no longer Surchatain. I gathered that he would not know exactly what to do until he arrived, and saw what the situation actually was.”

“And how was he to accommodate my lady in the monastery?” Oswald asked.

“He was going to sneak me in,” she replied with the flash of a grin. “There is a travelers’ court in the very front, with a well and stables, so I was to stop there and rest till I knew what he might do.”

“At last, a whiff of a plan,” he grunted. “That’ll do. Then you shall be the Lady Nouri, and I your bodyguard Forcht, on your way from Venegas to Westford.”

Venegas was a small coastal town in Scylla. Surchatain Magnus had expended large sums attempting to build a harbor there comparable to Nicole’s Harbor or Prie Mer. Due to the exponential increase in trade all along the southern coast, he was somewhat succeeding, despite the inhospitable cliffs. Unlike the coastal towns of Lystra, however, Venegas was a town of strangers, of passers-by. So it was a reasonable risk for the Second to choose that as their starting point.

“Then what are we doing wearing these ridiculous robes?” Nicole laughed. “Perhaps we should discard them.”

Oswald considered that, but rejected it simply because he did not wish the Surchataine to be seen in a peasant’s dress with no covering. “We were robbed on the way, Lady, but a passing band of Preaching Brethren chased the villains away before they could do further harm, and then gave us these robes.”

“Robbed? In Lystra? Ares would take great offense at that story,” she observed.

“No, Lady, we were robbed while yet in Scylla,” Oswald clarified. “The Preaching Brethren were on their way to minister in Venegas.”

One of the responsibilities of the Brethren was to send out bands to teach and evangelize in all surrounding areas. Unfortunately, neither Nicole nor Oswald knew that Master Manworren had been sadly negligent in this directive.

“That is rather convincing, Oswald,” she said in admiration.

“Forcht, Lady Nouri. I am your servant Forcht,” he reminded her.

“Forcht,” she murmured, nodding.

Increased daylight brought an increase in traffic, so Nicole and Oswald suspended scheming for a while. Knowing that the Sanctum would not provide hay, they departed the road to let their horses graze, then resumed their travel.

Shortly, they passed the abbey, established probably a hundred years ago, where nuns cared for orphaned children. Ares also sustained the abbey by Westford’s wealth—a practice that Henry would not presume to change even had it occurred to him that he could.


Having awakened this morning in time to catch Nicole in the corridor as she was leaving the palace, Henry stood in that same corridor long after she had left. His curling blond hair hung over his hazy grey eyes; the blond stubble on his face added to the look of wildness that had stamped him ever since his wilderness sojourn.

Nicole’s departing words—“Stand forth, Henry; you will not fail”—still reverberated through his skull. But their confidence was almost drowned out by the drumming of the fear: Ares was gone. He had really left. Henry was alone on the throne.

Even during his exile to the outpost in Odea four years ago, as painful as that was, he knew that all would be well, for Ares—Henry’s guardian since birth—ruled in Westford. The abandonment he felt today was nothing like Henry had experienced since the time he had been captured and sold into slavery, when he was 13.

Yet even then, Ares ruled, and because he ruled, he had found Henry and rescued him. But now Ares had stepped down, thinking to leave Henry in his place, and the world fell apart.

In blind desperation, Henry turned to the back stairwell to ascend to the eastern parapet on the roof of the palace. This was the most deserted spot in a place teeming with people, and the daily ascension of the light was a natural time of reverence for Henry. He would not have known to call it worship.

Here, he brought out his fears in a motley procession before the Surchatain of heaven and earth, and he leaned on the parapet, suspended over the world, to let the wind whip his hair and blow away the phantasms.

It was Commander Thom, Ares’ closest friend, who finally found the young Surchatain at the eastern parapet. Approaching, the Commander saluted and said, “Surchatain, the Lady Sophie was somewhat distraught upon finding you missing this morning, and the Counselor Vogelsong has some matters that require your attention.” His impassive face and cool blue eyes offered no subtext to the message.

After a moment, Henry turned to regard his erstwhile superior. Henry knew that once upon a time Ares had been Commander, and Thom his Second in Command, but that was part of such a distant past that Henry might as well try to imagine them as children—these men who seemed to him as gods.

“Thom, I’m scared,” he whispered.

Thom shifted, appraising him. Then he said, “The night that Magnus attacked us from the north with his trebuchet, and Ulm attacked us from the south, Ares had only the—most tenuous evidence that either would occur that night. He set the Green Regiment, under himself, in defense of the palace, and the rest of the army he sent south to meet Ulm. “But there was no direct indication that Ulm’s ships would debark then and there. In committing to this course, Ares had great fear, and there was cause for it: he alone made the decisions that would determine Westford’s survival. He had no one to rely on for counsel; nothing to base his decision on but his faith that God would not lead him astray.”

Thom paused while Henry called up the events from dusty memory. “That was the night of Sister’s wedding. I was seven or eight years old. Melva was with us. The whole cause of the warring was her.”

“Yes, Surchatain.”

“And I’m told I fell asleep under a table in the banquet hall,” Henry said.

“Yes. You also know the outcome—that Magnus was persuaded to leave with Druella as prize, and that the combined armies of Lystra and Calle Valley withstood Ulm’s invasion. Ares was proved right.

“But I have come to believe, in the years since, that the timing of the invasion was based on Ares’ decision to prepare for it. Not the other way around,” Thom said.

Henry blinked at him. “What?”

“Ares put himself so completely under the yoke of Christ, that the fact he believed that Ulm would attack that night, and arranged his defenses against it, moved his Master to prompt the attack for that night, so that Ares would succeed in meeting it. Had Ares chosen another course, I believe that God would have incited Ulm to attack in such a way as to come up against Ares’ prepared defenses. I have no proof of this, of course, and a man would be a fool to presume such protection, but . . . still, I believe this to be the case.”

“If that’s so, then why wouldn’t God prevent Ulm from attacking at all?” Henry exclaimed.

Thom regarded him. “Because that would deprive Ares of the battle that proved him worthy to rule.”

Henry stared at him, then looked back in despondence to the distant horizon. “That was Ares.”

“Who placed you under Christ’s headship, and your obedience indicates your desire to remain there. Thus, I believe you are under the same protection,” Thom ended.

Henry turned back to study Thom’s steady gaze, then gestured. “I suppose I had better go get dressed, then.”

“Surchatain.” Thom extended an arm in an invitation for Henry to precede him downstairs.


Nicole and Oswald approached the front gates of the travelers’ court of the Sanctum. A score of travelers leaving the court, bound for Westford, had passed them on the road, so that only a handful remained here now.

A large signboard at the right of the gate, written in beautiful calligraphy, read: “Welcome, Traveler, to the Well and Shelter of the Sanctum. May it please our Guests to observe Peace, to refrain from Begging, Fighting, or Licentious Behavior while within; to Keep Animals in the Stalls provided; to see to your own Provender, and to know that our unworthy Court is intended to be but temporary Shelter on your Way. Peace be unto You.” In smaller letters below was plainly written: “If you cannot read, have this Notice read to you.”

Upon reading the sign, Nicole and Oswald eyed each other. “I had not taken into account the other travelers that might sojourn here,” she observed.

“Then we shall. If the Lady Nouri will precede her humble servant Forcht,” he said by way of reminder, nodding to the open gates.

“Thank you, Forcht,” she replied.

So they entered, and dismounted to look around. It was a nice large courtyard paved in clay brick, about fifty feet in length. All four sides sported an overhanging roof five feet in depth, with benches placed sporadically along the walls, and firepits every ten feet or so. A large, fresh-water well equipped with rope and bucket stood in the center of the courtyard, and a screened latrine, amounting to a hole in the ground, was discreetly tucked in the back corner.

Oswald glanced at the four visitors presently occupying the court (three in one group and one by himself) and pointed Nicole toward a desirable corner with its own firepit, well away from the latrine. “If my lady will make herself comfortable.”

“Thank you—Forcht.” She remembered just in time, and he nodded gravely.

Oswald unpacked everything from the horses, then led them into the stables while Nicole settled against the wall in the corner of the court. The closest bench terminated a few feet from the firepit, enabling one to sit near a fire while remaining within easy reach of a bench. It was, all in all, a considerate set-up for wayfarers.

Since summer was hanging on through September with great tenacity, Nicole made no move to begin clearing the pit for a fire. While waiting for Oswald, she opened a satchel to remove sausages, fried spiced onions, bread and cheese.

A shadow crossed her preparations, and she looked up at a brown-robed figure that had stopped in front of her. Before she could blurt in a whisper, “Ares?” the man lowered his hood and smiled upon her. It was not her husband.

He was clean-shaven, as most of the Brethren were when not constrained by a particular vow, and his hair was short and tonsured—as she could see when he bowed his head to her.

Immediately before he spoke, she realized why she had leapt to the conclusion that he was Ares: this monk was Polonti. Not full-blooded, perhaps, but then neither was Ares full Polonti. But the race of Ares’ ancestor Roman was clear in this man’s face, hair, and build.

He said, “Greetings, Lady. It would be an honor and benefit to our modest Sanctum if my lady would consent to abide in a room within for the evening.”

She declined, “Oh, I don’t wish to cause any inconvenience. Your court is quite adequate.”

He persisted, “Lady, we earnestly beseech that you avail yourself of a room within the walls.”

This time she hesitated. Was he acting on Ares’ behalf? If he was, she decided, Ares would find some way to make that known to her. Caution was required of her now. “You are too kind, but I require no special treatment.”

His flat face settled into grim lines. “I must insist that my lady accept our poor offer of protection.”

She regarded him in surprise. Was he issuing a threat or a warning? “Since you phrase it thus, I will. But I must wait until my bodyguard returns from the stables.”

He bowed again. “That is reasonable, my lady.” So she began repacking provisions into her satchel.

He stood waiting, then said, “Forgive my ill manners. Your servant is Brother Tassos. May I inquire my lady’s name?” It seemed to her that he asked almost reluctantly.

She glanced up. “I am Lady Nouri of Venegas, traveling to Westford.” She stopped there, knowing the perils of too many words.

“Ah. I see.” He looked at her robe, but did not press for an explanation.

At that time Oswald came back into the court. As he advanced to her corner, Nicole stood, and he settled a cool gaze on the monk with her. Before either man could speak, Nicole said, “Forcht, this kind monk is Brother Tassos. He simply insists that we take lodging inside for the night.”

Oswald turned his deep-set eyes to appraise the monk, then bowed stiffly to her. “As my lady wishes.”

He bent to take up their saddles, bedrolls, and provisions. No tack would be left in the stables within easy reach of traveling thieves. There was a minor tussle when Nicole insisted on carrying her own satchel; at her look he relinquished hold of it.

Nicole turned to the monk. “Kindly show us to our rooms, Brother Tassos.”

“My lady greatly honors me.” He led her up short, broad steps to doors that opened from the travelers’ court directly into the nave of the church. It was nicely constructed with polished oak floors, a few tapestries on the side walls, and stained-glass windows at the apse.

Although thoughtfully designed, it was considerably less ornate than some of the other great churches around the Continent. In selecting materials, Ares had been far more concerned about functionality than beauty. The church proper was constructed of stone; the surrounding buildings were mostly wood.

Almost immediately upon entering, Brother Tassos turned to open an arched door on their left. It led into a corridor lined with doors on the left and right.

Proceeding down this corridor at a smart pace, the monk brought Nicole and Oswald to the last door on the left. As the corridor ended at another door, Oswald reached for its handle. Tassos held up a prohibitive hand. “I regret that this door is always barred on the other side.”

Looking at him, Oswald attempted to open the door anyway. When it didn’t budge, he uttered, “You appear to be right about that.”

Withholding comment, the monk reached instead for the latch of the smaller door on his left, and opened it. Nicole looked into a room with a pallet and washstand. Without window or candle, the room was dim even at midday.

“Forgive the inadequate accommodations, Lady Nouri,” the monk pleaded. “We will have a chamber pot and amenities brought at once.”

“It is quite suitable as is, Brother Tassos,” Nicole insisted. Oswald brought in their gear to pile it in an orderly fashion in the corner. He looked at a second door in the cell, opposite to the one they had entered by, but did not attempt to open it.

“Your room, sir, shall be directly across the corridor, here,” Tassos offered.

Oswald came back to the corridor to look down on him from his towering height. “My place shall be at my lady’s door.”

The monk hesitated in mild confusion; Nicole forestalled an argument by saying, “We shall make ourselves invisible, dear Brother. Please accept our gratitude for the shelter.”

He turned to her again. “The gratitude would be ours, Lady Nouri, if you would consent to dine with our Master, Father Manworren, at this time.”

“Now?” she asked, as it was yet afternoon.

“Yes, Lady, whenever you are ready.” Tassos bowed again, which began to irritate Oswald.

“Well, then, certainly. Allow me to make myself presentable by means of your washstand, then Forcht and I will be greatly honored to be received by the Father,” Nicole said.

Tassos glanced at Oswald, who was likewise beginning to irritate him. “I shall send a brother with amenities, and another to lead you to the dining area. The layout can be confusing,” he explained.

“Certainly,” she agreed, and he departed.

When he had gone, Oswald took that opportunity to enter her room and open the second door, which had no lock or bar. It opened into an identical cell that could be reached only by this one door.

Although the tiny room was also equipped with pallet and washstand (dry), it was obviously unoccupied. Nicole whispered, “Had you the chance to see the plans of this place, when it was being built?” This was about four years ago.

“Yes, Lady, at length,” he grunted.

“As did I,” she murmured in satisfaction.

She knew, for instance, that the monks’ quarters, where they were now, was tucked in the northwest corner between the nave and the transept of the church. There was a garden courtyard directly east that enclosed the north arm of the transept, and the kitchen/dining area sat north of the garden.

The lepers, isolated in their own quarters in the southwest corner of the nave and transept, posed no great danger to visitors who kept themselves to approved areas. (Unseen lepers were presumed to be noninfectious.)

Oswald noted, “Then my lady will recognize that this room”—gesturing into the empty one behind hers—“sits on the northwest corner of the monks’ quarters, and its two walls face the outside.” In gesturing, he inadvertently ripped the arm seam of the robe. So he peeled it off and tossed it in a corner of the inner room.

She looked at the wooden walls. “Wasn’t it supposed to be all stone?”

“Yes, but they were so long in constructing it that the foreman seized a load of pine to finish the dormitories. My lady should also know,” Oswald whispered, closing the door, “that I found a horse in the stables which I know to be from the palace. It’s Burl, a fast gelding, and smarter than most. He is a favorite of the Surchatain.”

“Then Ares did arrive,” she whispered back.

“Yes, Lady; I’m sure of it.”

They returned to the corridor to wait, and a monk presently brought a chamber pot, fresh water, scented soap, and clean cloths to Nicole. Then he and Oswald waited in the narrow corridor while she refreshed herself.

Since the windowless quarters proved rather stuffy, and the disguise of the robes pointless by now, Nicole left hers with Oswald’s, both folded neatly, before accompanying the monk down the corridor.

The two dormitory corridors were supposed to terminate with doors at either end to provide exits in the event of fire, but if the second door of the other corridor was also barred, that meant the two corridors opened only into the church. This disturbed Nicole, as it made the rooms less like quarters and more like prison cells.

Following Tassos, the visitors entered the nave and turned left, admiring the smooth marble columns leading up the center aisle of the church.

When they reached the transept, Nicole almost betrayed her knowledge of the Sanctum’s layout by turning toward the northern doors, which led out to the garden courtyard and kitchen/dining hall beyond.

But Oswald, seeing that the monk was not leading this way, discreetly impeded her turn. The monk glanced back as his guests bumped into each other. “Pardon my clumsiness, Lady Nouri,” Oswald uttered.

“The fault is mine, Forcht,” she said, blushing.

They proceeded clear to the apse with its carved altar and retable before turning to a narrow door on its north side. This opened into an opulent, spacious room. Nicole’s immediate perceptions were that of large glass windows (presently standing open), tapestries, shelves of leather-bound books, woven rugs on polished oak flooring, and exquisitely carved furniture.

Such luxuries were not provided for in Ares’ stipend to the Sanctum, and had he seen them, he would have immediately confiscated them for the palace treasury and dealt with their procurer.

The obvious occupant of these quarters advanced with outstretched hand to her. He was a handsome man, about Ares’ age, with silvered hair, clean teeth, and delicate, manicured hands. He wore a beautifully embroidered robe of white silk and a large gold cross that rivaled the adornment of anyone at the palace.

“Lady Nouri, I am your humble servant Father Manworren. Thank you for accepting my humble offer of shelter. I require my monks to keep an eye on the travelers’ court for beautiful women who might prove too great a temptation to other travelers—so Brother Tassos has plucked a jewel from the mire. May I show you to our humble table?” He indicated a large scrolled table heavy with gold dinnerware, and two ornate chairs.

“You are too kind, Father,” she murmured, blinking in shock.


© 2011 Robin Hardy

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