Her ink must have been running out, because the last lines were a hurried scrawl, quite unlike the elegance of the rest. Min had been sidling and twisting her head, trying to read the letter without being too obvious, but when he lifted himself to pull his coat out—the fat-little-man angreal was in the pocket—she scurried back again. “Do women all try to drive a man crazy?” he muttered.

“What!”

He stared at the letter, talking half to himself. “Elayne is so beautiful I can’t help staring, but half the time I don’t know whether she wants me to kiss her or kneel at her feet. Truth to tell, sometimes I did want to kneel . . . and worship, the Light help me. She says here I know how she feels. Two letters she’s written me before this, one full of love, the other saying she never wanted the sight of me again. The times I’ve sat wishing the first one was true and the other some sort of joke, or mistake, or. . . . And Aviendha. She’s beautiful too, but every day with her was a battle. No kisses from her, not anymore, and no doubts how she feels. She was even happier to get away from me than I was to see her go. Only, I keep expecting to see her when I turn around, and when she isn’t there, it’s as if something inside me is missing. I actually miss the battle, and there are moments when I find myself thinking, There are things worth fighting for.” Something in Min’s silence made him look up. She was staring at him with a face as blank as an Aes Sedai.

“Did nobody ever tell you it isn’t polite to talk to one woman about another?” Her voice was absolutely flat. “Much less two other women.”

“Min, you’re a friend,” he protested. “I don’t think of you as a woman.” It was the wrong thing to say; he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Oh?” Tossing back her coat, she placed her hands on her hips. It was not the all-too-familiar angry pose. Her wrists were twisted so her fingers pointed up, and somehow that made it very different. She stood with one knee bent, and that. . . . For the first time he really saw her; not just Min, but the way she looked. Not the usual plain brown coat and breeches, but pale red, and embroidered. Not the usual rough-cut hair that barely covered her ears, but ringlets brushing her neck. “Do I look like a boy?”

“Min, I—”

“Do I look like a man? A horse?” In one quick stride she reached him and plumped herself down in his lap.

“Min,” he said, aghast, “what are you doing?”