Monday: “Even my Lady Helen cannot deny me your bridal night.” (The Earl of Strode to Marguerite)
Tuesday: If what Marguerite suspected proved true, she would be as merciless as Strode in her retribution.
Wednesday: “Nor is Robert your son,” Helen said with the spirit that had won Gunthar’s admiration, and then his heart eight-and-thirty years ago, “yet you cannot tell me you have not meddled in his life as though he were, or that you are planning to continue to do so, beginning with telling him who he can and cannot marry.”
Thursday: Gunthar slanted a stern study on his wife’s tresses, lest he find their pale gold spoiled with garish yellow streaks.
Friday: He towered over Marguerite, his broad-shouldered build less massive than Strode’s, but somehow more daunting, for where Strode intimidated with coldness and bullying force, Gunthar’s terrible gaze stripped away all her defenses and pierced her to the very heart.