Dare turned to find himself looking down the long barrel of his dueling pistol.

“I believe the word you are looking for is oblivion.”

“I know what obsidian means,” Charlotte snapped, using both hands to cock the hammer on the pistol. “And I assure you, if opaque, black nothingness is what you desire, you shall have it. Unless you agree, this minute, to stop pouting, I shall shoot you.”

“I am not pouting. Dear God, woman, look at me, just look at me! I’ve lost my eye, the use of my arm, and my entire hope of saving us from the poorhouse. Is it pouting to grieve for the costly mistake I made? Is it pouting to know that I can never be what I was? Is it pouting to know that I’ve ruined not only my life, but yours as well? I’m not pouting, I’m mourning the loss of my manhood. How can I give you what you want, what you deserve, while I am in this pathetic state?”

“You can and you will, if you just stop pitying yourself and think about me for a change. Honestly, Dare, any other husband in the world would be falling all over himself to please me, and yet you make love to me with such beauty one moment, then turn away from me the next as if I had an unsightly spot right in the middle of my forehead. I won’t have it, do you understand? I simply won’t have it. If you would rather die than live happily with me, so be it. I shall shoot you.”

“You won’t shoot me,” he said with a martyred sigh, taking a step toward her. “You said yourself you love me. You can’t shoot me if you love me.”

“I shall. I’m quite serious in this, Dare. Look at my eyebrows. Do you see my frown? Frowning causes wrinkles; I don’t undertake frowning lightly. That should be of some indication to you just how serious I am.”

“You won’t shoot me,” he repeated, taking another step forward and holding out his hand for the pistol. “I’m not worth the trouble it would take to shoot me.”

“Pheasant feathers!” Charlotte snapped in frustration, her fingers inadvertently tightening around the trigger. The pistol bucked painfully in her hands, the sound of the explosion reverberating around the room in a manner that left her ears ringing. She coughed the taste of powder out of her mouth and stared with horror at her husband.

“You did shoot me,” he exclaimed, his voice full of amazement as he stared down at his leg. He touched his breeches, lifting his hand to show her the smear of red on his fingers. “By Christ, you shot me!”

“You wanted to be shot,” Charlotte answered even as she dropped the pistol and threw herself at his feet.

“Not in the leg,” Dare argued. “No one wants to be shot in the leg, it’s unmanly. A shot through the temple, now, that’s suitable. But not in the leg, Charlotte, never in the leg. Ow! That hurts!”