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THE NEXT MORNING BRINLEY peered around the dim bedroom, groggy and disoriented, trying to locate the source of the terrible knocking inside her skull. Just as she realized the knocking was at the door and not in her head, Finn was doing the same thing from the sofa. On cue, they recognized their predicament—if they were discovered sleeping on opposite sides of the room, they would generate even more gossip than they already had.

At her panicked look, Finn sprinted across the floor and leapt into the bed just as Brinley called, “Come in,” to whomever was visiting at the ungodly hour of eight a.m.

Charles, her father’s secretary, wrenched open the door and squinted into the hazy interior. If it were anyone else Brinley would have bid them turn on a light, but she hated Charles and the only reason he would run an errand as simple as fetching the princess was because he wanted to be the first to report on any seedy gossip. What he saw instead was a sleepy young couple sitting in a tousled bed, recently woken, and not at all gossip-worthy. Even in the gloom his disappointment was notable.

“You are wanted in the king’s office,” he said, mouth pinched with irritation. “In ten minutes. Do you under—”

“Yeah,” Brinley interrupted. “Get out.” She wasn’t at her best first thing in the morning, but she always seemed to be at her very worst where Charles was concerned.

“What do you think it’s about?” Finn asked when they were alone again.

She turned to see him lying on the mattress, managing to seem very much like he belonged there. With his sleep-soft mouth and tousled hair, he looked like every one of her fantasies come to life, so close she could feel his body heat mingling with hers.

“I have no idea,” she said, flinging her legs over the edge of the bed to escape the traitorous urges trying to bubble up. “Perhaps time has given him inspiration for yet another punishment.”

Brinley padded to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face and brush her teeth. At least she didn’t look as horrid as she had last night. Her eyes were no longer puffy or red, the smeared mascara was gone, and she wasn’t bawling her head off.

“Erm, do you mind?” Finn asked from the door. She hadn’t closed it all the way, and now he hovered uncertainly at the threshold, toothbrush in hand. “I just need—”

“Of course.” She spoke around a mouthful of bubbles, then hesitated before dipping her head to spit in the sink and hastily rinse her mouth. The boys she had been with during her years at university wouldn’t have qualified as boyfriends, exactly. They were friends, sometimes less, sometimes more, but though she had done far more intimate things with them, she had never done something that felt quite as personal as brushing teeth side by side.

For a minute the only sound was the brushing, and slightly awkward spitting, then more rinsing and the passing of hand towels and polite thank-yous. At some point during the night Finn had removed his pants and slept in his T-shirt and boxer shorts printed with little cartoon frogs. The striped socks were gone, too, and without the trappings of his regal finery he seemed younger, more real.

As though sensing her gaze, he met her eye in the mirror and held the stare until she shot him a nervous smile and hurried out of the room. It hardly seemed fair to have to endure an awkward morning after when there was no before to speak of.

They dressed with their backs turned, Finn in a button up shirt and trousers, Brinley in a plain wrap dress and flats. She rarely paid attention to her appearance if she was just lounging around the castle, but because she was already on thin ice with her father, the token effort couldn’t hurt.

Finn knocked on the office door at precisely eight-fifteen. Charles swung it open a second later, most likely lurking on the other side, hoping to catch them in some nefarious act. As it stood he encountered only two people waiting politely.

“Move,” Brinley said, shouldering her way past.

Well, Finn waited politely.

King Luke sat at his desk, his expression slightly less thunderous than it had been two nights earlier. He had put on a good performance during the wedding—they all had—but unlike most of the kingdom, he hadn’t forgotten that humiliating photograph and likely would not for some time. For weeks Brinley had rued her sister’s departure, but now she saw the small upside to her absence: without Elle for comparison, her parents had no choice but to make do with the daughter they still had. All those years of testing their patience had built it up strong, and it was evident in the king’s stiff posture.

“Good morning,” he said gruffly. “Sit down. Sleep well?” He coughed. “Don’t answer that.”

They sat and waited. Brinley could sense that Finn felt the need to fill the silence with some dutiful comment, but she shot him a quelling look and he remained quiet as the king chose his next words. “You’re going to an orphanage,” he said finally.

For a second, Brinley’s heart stopped. When she was a child, her angry nannies had used that as a threat to keep her in line. Though she had eventually grown old enough to realize it was an empty threat, hearing it again still hit her with a pang of terror.

“To visit,” King Luke added. “This afternoon. You shall tour the orphanage, engage with the children, smile for photos, and behave yourselves.”

“Of course,” Finn said.

“An orphanage?!” Brinley exploded. “Are you—” She stopped herself from saying “an idiot.” “How wholly unoriginal and unimaginative. It’s antiquated and—”

“Old-fashioned values won’t harm you, Brinley.”

“It’s the 21^st Century! Who visits orphanages for photo ops? Who sincerely visits them for photo ops?”

“If you are sincere, it will be sincere.”

“It’s offensive,” she fumed. “You assume the kingdom is so naïve as to believe—”

“That will be all,” King Luke interrupted. “Your car leaves at noon.” He nodded once at Charles, who scurried to open the door.

This time it was Finn who shot Brinley a quelling look, taking her elbow and guiding her into the hall.

“Good day,” Charles murmured.

“I hate you,” Brinley murmured back.

“Is it really so bad?” Finn asked as they walked to the dining room. “Visiting children?”

“He may as well ask me to sit for a public exorcism!” she exclaimed. “This is exactly the kind of task Elle was suited for—they’re trying to reshape me in her image. No, worse—take me to pieces and rebuild me as her.”

“They don’t want that,” Finn said patiently. “She left, after all. They realized their mistake.”

Brinley scoffed. “Or she realized hers and was wise enough to correct it before she was shackled to—”

Finn’s flinch stopped her in her tracks.

“This place,” she finished. “I was going to say ‘this place.’ Not...you.” It was true, but she could tell Finn didn’t believe her. The stoic mask was slipping on again, so smoothly she had failed to appreciate it when it was gone.

“Good morning, Brinley,” said Magda, the kitchen manager. Her appearance muddled the growing tension. “Here for breakfast? You must be famished after yesterday. What would you like? The usual? Three chocolate chip pancakes and four pieces of bacon?”

Upon hearing her regular breakfast order, Brinley blushed. “Er, just toast, please. And...one pancake.”

Magda waited.

“And four pieces of bacon,” she mumbled.

Finn kept a straight face. “The same,” he said, when Magda turned to him. “Plus two more pancakes.”

* * *

THE FOOD HELPED EASE Brinley’s sour mood, and when they arrived at the Estau City Orphanage in the center of the bustling old downtown, she felt more like herself. Which posed something of a problem, because she was now part of a motorcade of a dozen matching black sedans winding through cobblestone streets lined with well-wishers and cameras. Whether they were hoping to glimpse the newlywed couple or the historically bad princess remained to be seen.

She smoothed the royal blue tweed of her skirt and fiddled with the pearl buttons of the matching jacket. She had balked at the sky high heels suggested by the castle stylists and wore black flats instead, but had let them attempt to tame her unruly hair until it had been arranged in something vaguely resembling a chignon. She felt like herself, but she did not look like herself. And she prayed she did not behave like herself.

Beside her Finn sat up straight, looking dignified and very attractive in a dark gray suit and silk tie in the same blue shade as her dress. It made his eyes look darker, more intense, and when he turned to her as they stopped she felt it again, that same awareness, that same sad spark of hope. This was her life, but it was not. She wanted it to be, but she did not.

“Brinley,” he said seriously. “I have heard rumors of this orphanage being haunted. There is supposed to be a secret passageway behind one of the shelves in the library, and a set of antique swords hangs over the headmistress’s desk.”

Brinley already knew all of this and was quite hoping—

“Try to control yourself around the swords,” Finn continued. “There will be children present, and if you behead one, not even a royal wedding will save you.”

Brinley bristled. “I would never—”

“And if you should somehow manage to sneak away and find the secret passageway, do come find me so I can see it too.”

Her mouth opened and closed. “Dammit, Finn. I cannot tell when you are joking.”

“I assure you, I am absolutely serious on both counts.”

But the corner of his mouth quirked, that small restrained smile she wished she could see more fully.

“I shall do my best,” she said solemnly.

“Then Lord help us all,” he replied.

The car door opened, the driver and security team flanking them. The streets roared with the shouted greetings of Estau’s citizens, most likely the same ones who had lined up yesterday to watch the wedding cavalcade. The first photographs would later show Brinley and Finn smiling as they exited the car, Finn extending a hand to his wife, who very carefully kept her knees together as she stepped out, loathe to be featured in the Estau Tattler’s annual Crotch Shots edition.

The orphanage was a red stone building with painted white trim and the flag of Estau flying out front. Brinley turned in a complete circle to take in the ancient stone structures that lined the street, their old exteriors sheltering completely modern interiors, coffee shops and book shops and cell phone stores and more coffee. It was a bright and sunny day and she wished desperately that she could have an afternoon free to explore, unburdened by her royal responsibilities. But she knew she was being selfish—she had had nearly four years of freedom, and a practical role in the kingdom had long been her dream...just not like this.

They were ushered into the orphanage foyer, its arched ceiling creating a grand, echoing effect. The cries of the citizens faded behind them when the heavy wooden doors closed and locked, but they were far from alone. In addition to Brinley and Finn and the orphanage’s headmistress, Ms. Shire, there were eight bodyguards, two public relations experts, and four royal photographers. Brinley winced as camera flashes flared around them, capturing the charitable moment of their entry, and beside her Finn reached down to take her hand, its weight reassuring.

She clutched his fingers, feeling like the same scared princess who had peeked out from behind her mother’s skirts on her first public outings as a child. She had known even then that she was not cut out for this position, that she would never fit the perfectly hewn mold of “princess.”

“Welcome,” Ms. Shire said, stepping forward to shake their hands. “Thank you for visiting today.”

“Thank you for having us,” Finn replied. He made all the right remarks as Ms. Shire gave them the tour, Brinley on the brink of having a heart attack the entire time. She knew in her mind that she was not actually going to be abandoned here, but she had developed such clearly defined ideas about what an orphanage would look like that it was hard to recognize the very plain, matter-of-fact reality. In her young mind the children were posed behind glass, like mannequins in a store window. They stood frozen in a practical tableau where they performed some useful household task, like ironing or making a bed. Orphan Brinley—who, even in dreams, was not actually an orphan, simply rejected—stood helplessly behind her own wall of glass, with nothing to offer. And much like pet shop visitors passing by a sickly puppy, no one stopped for her.

The actual orphanage resembled a school on the ground level, with a large cafeteria and library and suites of offices for administration and nurses. Upstairs were two levels of dormitory-style rooms and common areas, divided by age. The younger children had play stations and toys; the older children had books and television.

The kids were nonplussed by the visitors, perhaps used to the unwanted attention, and carried on with their activities with hardly a glance at the passerby. They did not visit Ms. Shire’s office so they did not have a chance to see the antique swords, and perhaps because of their recent library tryst, the tour of that room was infuriatingly brisk.

They were led out back to a large, walled-in courtyard, dozens of children playing in the grass or sitting at picnic tables. Ms. Shire explained to the group that the children had regular exercise and sport schedules, but Brinley was watching a young girl, no older than seven, attempt to throw a rock at a can perched twenty feet away. Her aim was well off and she was never going to hit it.

Brinley ordered herself to pay attention to the lecture and keep a bland look of interest stamped on her face. But her eyes continued to stray to the girl and the unharmed can, and finally she slipped away from the group and approached the child.

“You will never hit it if you don’t step into your throw,” Brinley said reasonably.

The girl froze and turned to look up at her with wide eyes. She blinked, confirming she was looking at a living person and not a ghost, and Brinley saw the same hesitation that she was so familiar with herself. The reluctance to trust somebody, fully expecting their criticism and not their support.

“You’re keeping your feet in one place,” Brinley said. “That means your arm only gets about half as much throwing room as it would if you stepped into it.” She bent to scoop a rock from the pile collected on the ground and demonstrated. “Step with your opposite foot—see how much more range of motion your arm has?”

The girl nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.

“It will give you more power,” Brinley continued. “Just step...and throw.” She tossed the stone—not terribly hard, lest it ricochet and maim one of the children, just her luck—and hit the can, knocking it over.

The girl’s jaw dropped. “Whoa,” she said.

The sound of a throat clearing had Brinley turning to remember the group, all of whom were now watching her. The throat clearer was Finn, and Brinley knew she was looking at him with the same trepidation with which the girl had looked at her.

“And of course,” Brinley added lamely, “be good and be gracious.” The Estau motto, not that she had ever mastered either part of it.

Finn swiped a hand across his jaw, and Brinley strongly suspected he was attempting to hide a smile. The headmistress was scowling and the public relations ladies were darting uncertain glances at one another, but it was Finn who broke the tension.

“Also,” he said, stepping forward to crouch beside the girl to select a rock. “Keep your feet and shoulders square, facing the target. It will make your throw more accurate.” He tossed a rock and neatly hit the can lying in the grass. “See?” he asked, deadpan. “Good and gracious.”

* * *

IT WAS DINNERTIME WHEN they arrived home, and Brinley was famished. An afternoon of good behavior was terribly taxing, and the too-tight chignon was giving her a headache.

She passed her mother as she hustled toward the elevator, desperate for a change of clothes and a stiff drink. “Brinley,” Queen Vivienne called as she jabbed the up arrow. “Dinner will be served in half an hour.”

“What are we having?”

Magda appeared behind the queen. “Roast squab with side salad,” she said. “Mushroom soup to start.”

Finn, who had lingered to speak with Charles, approached just in time to hear the mention of the dreaded squab.

“I have a headache,” Brinley said, stepping into the elevator when it arrived. “I will eat in my room. And I would prefer spaghetti, Magda. With meatballs. And garlic bread.” She waited for Finn to get in. “Finn will have the same. He also has a headache.”

Queen Vivienne had been ready to argue, but now closed her mouth and exchanged a look with Magda. Randy newlyweds, they agreed.

Brinley had been telling the truth about her own headache, and tossed Finn into the mix to spare him the squab dinner. She had not meant to start a rumor about herself—there were plenty of people to do that for her, especially about something so patently untrue. Still, she said nothing to correct them and she and Finn rode to the third floor in a slightly awkward silence.

“Thank you,” he said abruptly, when they stopped and the doors slid open. “For the...spaghetti.”

“You can tell them you don’t like squab, you know. Or turnips or strawberries or anything else you despise. You’re a prince, after all. This is your home now.”

“Right,” he said. “All true.”

They went into her—their—room and Finn closed the door, and she was aware that he watched with a look of bemusement as she wiggled out of the too-tight jacket and undid the button at the back of her skirt. She had not forgotten herself quite enough to squeeze out of the garment in front of him, but she did enjoy her first full breath of the day.

“I did not mean to get us in trouble at the orphanage,” Brinley said as she hunted through her wardrobe for something more comfortable to wear. It was warm in the room so she settled on a pair of shorts and a long sleeve shirt bearing the logo of her university. “I really just meant to teach the girl to throw.”

Finn lay his suit jacket over the arm of the sofa and reached up to loosen his tie. “I rather thought you intended to get us banned from the orphanage,” he remarked. “To thwart any of your father’s future public relations plans.”

“A side benefit,” Brinley admitted. “But an accidental one.”

Finn sat on the sofa and picked up his tablet to read as she went to the bathroom to change and free her hair from its strict confines. She watched in the mirror as she peeled away the dutiful princess costume and replaced it with an actual human, and with each bobby pin she plucked from her curls she felt the tension in her temples ebb. Eventually she had retrieved them all, running her fingers through her hair to finagle the knots and massage her sore scalp. The end result was her typically tousled mess, curling past her shoulders, the same curls the castle stylists had begged her mother to straighten when she was a girl. Queen Vivienne had allowed them to try a few times, but ultimately gave in to her daughter’s tears and let her be. They had Elle, after all. Brinley could be forgiven her second rate hair.

When she returned to the bedroom Finn was still on the sofa, one foot propped on the opposite knee. His socks today had tiny purple polka dots speckling the black cotton, an equally tiny glimpse into his personality, much like the small twitch of his mouth when he looked at his wife.

“Come here,” he ordered, nodding at the seat next to him.

Brinley had heard those words many times, and they were never good. “Why?” she said, not sitting. She listened to her father—usually—but it was the 21^st Century and their wedding vows had specifically not included the word obey.

“You should see this,” he answered, skimming whatever was on the tablet. When she still didn’t move he finally recognized her discomfort and added, “It’s good, Brinley.” The stark gray of his eyes softened when he said her name, when he saw her bare feet and her knobby knees and the little hole in the corner of her shirt.

She took a breath and took him at his word and sat down, leaning in slightly to see the screen. It was a small blog she had never heard of, and the headline of the top post was Princess Takes Aim. It included a color photo of Brinley arcing back her arm to make her throw, the little girl from the orphanage watching intently. Today, the article began, Estau’s infamous “bad princess,” Brinley Cantrella, visited an orphanage as her first public outing since her surprise marriage to Prince Finian of Lenora. Unlike the palace’s typically trite excursions, trotting out the royals to pose for photos and build up bland, general goodwill with the public, Brinley Cantrella made the outing an interesting—and informative—one. Perhaps her increased public presence will help bring the royal family into the present day, one where the women teach little girls how to make their mark and not merely how to stand by their man.

“Wow,” Brinley said once she’d finished the article. “Just...wow. I kept waiting for the ‘but.’”

“I kept waiting for the ‘good and gracious,’” Finn replied.

“Oh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “That never comes. I’m a bad princess, remember?”

“I guess it just depends which paper you read.”

“All of them,” she answered. “Except this one. Which has...” She scanned the page. “Seventy-seven subscribers.”

Finn typed in his email address—FredLandry93—and hit the subscribe button. “Seventy-eight,” he said. “Its readership is expanding.”

Brinley was so taken by his fake name that she missed the kindness of his gesture. “Fred Landry?”

He shrugged. “Why not? What’s your fake name?”

“Claire Medusa,” she admitted.

“Your hair looks nothing like snakes. It’s quite beautiful.”

Her face grew warm. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t have to say anything, do I?”

For a second she just stared at him.

He stared back.

The same heat and energy that had scorched them in the library was back, this time without the assistance of alcohol. Without the forbidden taboo. They were a married couple, in their bedroom, with no rules to break, no tours to stumble in and catch them red-handed.

Finn made the first move.

He put down the tablet and leaned in, closing the scant inches between them, and paused with his mouth a hairsbreadth away. When Brinley didn’t move he closed the remaining space and touched his lips softly to hers.

She tried not to whimper foolishly.

Tried foolishly not to want this.

Want him.

Her husband.

He tilted his head slightly and hers moved as well, improving the fit. They fit together so well. Unfairly well. So temptingly, appallingly well. He nudged her bottom lip and she opened for him, felt his tongue on hers, every bit as skilled as it had been the first time. His hand slipped into her hair and cupped the back of her head, and Brinley let out the whimper she wanted to hide, let him slide a hand over her hip and draw her in so she straddled his lap.

She had just barely gotten into position when a quick rap at the door had her toppling right back off. Finn caught her before she hit the floor, his eyes glazed and breathing rough. Brinley tried to stifle a yelp but one slipped out, and Charles took that as his cue to enter, pushing open the door with a phony, “I hope I’m not interrupting...”

The look on his weasel-like face was one of genuine surprise, swirled with disappointment. He knew the marriage was forced, and, like many, believed that Finn had come to the castle that scandalous night with his heart broken, and Brinley—and tequila—were merely a bandage, so finding them in what probably appeared to be a weird sex contortion took him very much aback.

“Oh, ah...” he stammered. “I just came to...”

Finn righted Brinley and she stood and scowled at Charles, fighting the urge to attack him for the interruption.

“Spit it out,” she snapped, when he continued to fumble.

He, too, was holding a tablet in his hands, but she didn’t need to see it to know he was not here to bring their attention to the Princess Takes Aim article.

Finn was slightly more tactful. “What is your business here, Charles?”

“I came to show you this,” he said, thrusting out the tablet. Brinley kept her arms folded so Finn came forward to take the device, standing next to her as he frowned at the screen. “It’s the same response all over,” Charles added. “Everyone is unsurprised by the princess’s behavior, but they seem to view your response sympathetically. There is only so much that can be done. We can work with it. Call it a...learning experience, if you will.”

Brinley glowered at him but they had a lifetime of glowers between them, and Charles didn’t even blink.

“Get out,” Finn said mildly.

Now Charles did blink. “Er...what? I mean, I beg your pardon? Sir? Your Highness?”

“Get out,” Finn repeated, equally bland.

Charles remained rooted to the spot for another flustered moment, then turned and reached for the door. “My tablet,” he said, as an afterthought.

“No,” Finn replied.

Charles flushed red, considered arguing, then wrenched open the door and fled. The door slammed behind him and Brinley and Finn stood still for a full minute, staring at the place he had been. She so seldom received visitors to her room that she rarely locked the door, and now she cursed her laziness.

But the more she read the article still displayed on the glowing screen, the more it dawned on her that Charles may have unintentionally saved her from enormous personal humiliation.

Princess Elle Vida’s visit to the orphanage two years earlier was a much more civil affair, the article read. Instead of teaching children how to use weapons, she showed them how to be good and to be gracious, and led by fine example.

Brinley’s stomach twisted miserably.

She had long accepted the fact that she was rarely good or gracious, but the press—and the public—seemed both unwilling and unable to come to terms with it. Still, it frustrated her not only to be officially shackled to this position, but to so desperately want it when she was so abominably unqualified.

The situation with Finn was much the same.

She loved him with the same youthful fervency she had always felt, but to him she was a duty. He showed her kindness and respect, and he kissed her like a starving man brought to a feast, but it only made the situation worse. He, like the entire kingdom, had long had his heart set on Elle.

And now he was forced to make do with her sister.

“Do you miss her?” Brinley asked softly, staring at the tablet as the screen mercifully faded to black.

Finn looked at her. “Miss who?”

“Elle,” she said, a bit too forcefully. “Who else?”

Finn thought for a second, then shrugged. “No. I hardly knew her.”

“But she was your...was to be your...”

He turned to face her fully, considering his words. “That was someone else’s plan,” he said finally. “Someone else’s dream.”

“But you made it your own.”

Something that might have been regret flickered in his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose I did.”

“What would you want? If you could have anything? What would it be?” Brinley held out no hope that he would reply with her name, but found herself disappointed all the same when another knock came at the door, this time followed by Magda’s cheery, “Spaghetti and meatballs delivery!”

Finn arched a brow. “Does Magda normally make the deliveries herself?”

“No.” Brinley sighed. “Charles probably sent her. Or my mother. Or both.” She pulled open the door and Magda swept in with the cart, not bothering to hide the fact that she was scanning the room for signs of...something. Something that did not exist.

“Spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread,” she announced, lifting the domes off the plates so the smell of tomato and garlic filled the air. “And a bottle of wine to go with it.”

Brinley tried not to sigh again. “Thank you, Magda. This is wonderful.”

“Scrumptious,” Finn added.

Magda bustled back out, wishing them a good night. She had placed the dishes on the trunk at the foot of the bed, as per usual, but tonight Brinley snatched up her plate and brought it to the small table in the corner. The table was ostensibly for tea, but she rarely drank tea and rarely used the table. It sat next to a window which overlooked the east garden, and Brinley stared at it intently as she took a large bite of bread. She was aware of Finn joining her but kept her attention focused outside. The garden had a large hedge maze, and as a child she had studied it for hours, planning how best to dash through from one end to the other without making a wrong turn. If only she could be so successful in life.

“She knew you wanted it,” Finn said, twisting his fork in the noodles.

Brinley glanced at him. “I ordered it, didn’t I?”

“Elle,” he clarified. “She knew you wanted to be queen one day. She knew she would be leaving the castle in good hands.”

“She told you she was leaving?” The real shocker in that sentence was the notion that Elle—that anyone—would think leaving the castle to Brinley to inherit was to leave it in good hands, but she couldn’t process that concept right now, so she focused on the more immediate issue.

Finn shook his head. “No. But it was not a surprise. She was unhappy here. She looked the part, but that was it.”

Hearing the words coming from Finn—honorable, dutiful Finn—was shocking, and felt almost treasonous. How could he share this information so calmly, when it went against everything he had been raised to believe?

“Do you want it?” Brinley asked.

He watched her for a second. “Yes,” he said. “Very much.”

“Because you want to be king or because someone else expects you to be?”

“That’s very much a chicken and egg question,” he answered. “Do I want to be king because I was born to it; would I want it even if I were not? I cannot guess how I would feel if things were different, because they are not. But my choices have led me here, so I cannot complain.”

Brinley watched him cut a meatball.

“I would want this,” he added, also watching the meatball. “I have always wanted it. It is not a chicken-egg situation.”

Her heart skipped an optimistic beat. “Are you talking about the meatball?”

“No.”

“The spaghetti?”

“I am not talking about food at all.”

For once, Brinley was speechless. Finian of Lenora was not known to be a liar, but it was impossible to believe what she was hearing. That he would want this—want her—even without the pressing circumstances surrounding the situation, was beyond comprehension.

“I find it hard to believe you are telling me this,” she said.

“And yet,” he replied, “I am.”