“I have good legs,” she said. “Or so I’m told.” She sighed. “I’m a laundress. I’m an imposter. That poor armourer; he treated me as if I was the Blessed Virgin herself, and not some woman, a woman who farts and laughs and . . .” She paused. “I’m not a great warrior like Sauce, and I’m not a great magistrix like Tancreda. I come from no great family. My mother was the mistress of some great noble or other.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I look at you . . . today, during the review. And I think . . . that it is like pretending you are married to God.”

Gabriel turned from the window. His face was odd in the play of the candlelight; the shadows distorted him, and he looked fiendish. “You do have good legs,” he said. He ran a hand down one.

She sighed. And slapped at his hand.

He shook his head. “My sweet, we are all imposters.”

Their eyes met.

“One of the reasons I married you was that you are the companion I wanted for this night.” He looked at her. She blushed but he went on, “I am taking a risk. Tonight, it seems insane. Jesus, why did I make this choice?” He shivered, and instantly her arms were around him.

“I pretend. I pretend I’m brave, and I pretend I’m in command, and I pretend that I have a magnificent plan, and half the time I’m making it up as I go, and I’m scared out of my wits and I am juggling eternities.” He gave a great shudder and subsided. “I have killed an awful lot of my friends and I’m still not sure what the prize is, and in the morning . . .” He turned and wormed an arm out of her embrace, and he kissed her. “Listen. I’m not an astrologer. But more than a year ago, I imagined . . .” He frowned. “Perhaps this is too much. I imagined that if we made it this far; and I didn’t even know yet how far this would be. If we made it this far . . .” He took a deep breath.

She kissed him. It wasn’t companionable after the first few heartbeats. It was erotic.

“When I pulled you into my saddle,” he whispered, “I knew you could . . . survive . . . anything I threw at you.”

His skin was glowing like sun-lit metal. His metal hand was dark.

She sat up and shrugged her nightshirt over her head.

“Shouldn’t we be asleep?” he asked. His hands were at variance with his words.

“No,” she said.

Seven hours later, his skin was glowing enough that there was a rumble of comment in the casa, who stood, weapons unsheathed, at the very top of the ramp down into the great underhall.