Monday: The fellow met Strode’s eyes briefly in the light of the torch held by one of his companions, his face as unreadable as it had been in the hall, save for that one ill-judged grin he had cast at the Lady Marguerite.
Tuesday: He would have to cool her temper before she would grant him the heat of her passion.
Wednesday: Illusion was everything between lovers, as it was at times between subject and king.
Thursday: She did not care that she had only been a child, that it was unreasonable to expect him to see in a seventeen-year-old woman the ten-year-old girl who had helped him all those years ago.
Friday: She had heard them sung merry, melancholy, sardonic, and bitter, but never in such fluid tones as his, or to a melody so plaintive that it hung shivering in the air, a poignant reminiscence, for moments after his voice had ceased.
Saturday: “But one kiss—just one!—I would cherish to the end of my days.”