“YOU CAN FIND ALLIES, or you can find enemies.” It was no masterpiece of a sentence. Surely someone important had said something like it before William. His newfound authority, he had discovered, hinged entirely on his ability to project confidence and wisdom doled out in mysterious and spontaneous packages. He wondered how much of Roger de Lacy’s profundity had been a performance, a disguise for a terrified old man who could only barely grasp the strings that bound the city together.

“You can also sleep,” Arable mumbled, smoothing the heavy covers of the bed beside him. She lay face down in its warmth, her dark curls melting into the furs.

She was wrong, of course. There would be a time when William could choose to sleep again, but for now exhaustion alone could put an end to each night. He would regularly work until his mind caved in, awaking again at his desk or the floor hours later, only to immediately resume whatever he had been working on.

Arable worked just as tirelessly, as he’d taken to use her as his personal assistant. Which, unfortunately for her, meant endless hours secluded in a room copying letters and writing responses. She complained about her eyes, her back, her wrist, and he no longer had the time to ease her pains.

Sadly, her isolation was also a guilty strategy, because some of his secrets now had to be kept even from her. She did not yet know that he intended on marrying the Lady Marion Fitzwalter.

She’d take it poorly when she inevitably learned of it. The world would learn when he announced it at de Lacy’s funeral, but he swore to find time to discuss it with Arable before then. That looming moment filled him with more dread than anything else he’d done yet. He had promised never to lie to her, never to hurt her, but reality was forcing his hand. But she was sharp, he reminded himself, and knew better than most what compromises were necessary for survival. She’d understand the political necessity of the situation, and not mistake it for anything emotional. They’d be able to continue on as they had, it would change nothing. It was practically trivial, from an objective standpoint. But when he thought of her face beside his in the hayloft, her nose wrinkling as she smiled, standing on a ladder … his gut wrenched with guilt.