Imogen stared out the window from her chamber and saw only darkness. Somewhere in the city, or the forest surrounding it, Cededa hid from her. She hid from him as well, still hot with the humiliation of his rejection, the sudden revulsion he had for her touch. He was mercurial as well as cruel, and Imogen thanked the gods he left her alone before the tears poured unheeded down her cheeks.

Now, her face was awash with the fire of humiliation. He had accepted her forthright, albeit clumsy praise of his appearance with an amused equanimity, even complimenting her more than once on her lack of guile or pretense. But sincere flattery was one thing, demanding he play the role of lover and teacher something else entirely. He had turned on her in an instant, warned her off, and put as much distance between them as fast as he could. Imogen pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You stupid, stupid woman,” she admonished herself.

Niamh might have taught her a world of knowledge, but Imogen’s bane and quiet life had worked against her, leaving her unskilled at reading another person’s subtle cues and body language, especially that of men. And this man in particular.

A new fear clenched a fist around her heart and squeezed. He had rebuffed her, bruising her wrist with the effort. What if he refused to let her touch him ever again? Even if it was strictly to help her break the curse? Panic roared through her at the thought.

Lightning struck close by, blasting the darkness away and illuminating the courtyards and temples nearby in white light. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, followed by a crack of thunder hard enough to make her teeth rattle. Still, it was enough time for Imogen to catch a glimpse of a pale-haired figure striding toward the center courtyard, oblivious to the storm's deluge or its dangerous lightning bolts.

She scrambled for her cloak. She would apologize for any insult cast, any liberty taken. Grovel on her knees if she had to and beg his forgiveness. He’d given her hope in his willingness to break her curse by taking it into himself, where his immortality shielded him from its lethal effects.

“Please, Cededa,” she muttered as she yanked on her boots and opened the door. “Please have mercy.”

An inner voice mocked her invocation. Why would a man so named The Butcher show mercy to anyone?

Imogen raced into the corridor and snatched one of the lit torches off its brackets. The wavering flame offered the only light to break the sepulchral black of the cloisters beyond her door. If she didn't have that, she might well break her neck falling down one of the ever-changing staircases. She growled when a sudden coldness wrapped around her ankles and tugged as if to coax her back to her room. The palace's spectral caretaker. She'd grown used to its presence, the uncanny way it knew her needs and wants without her ever voicing them. But she had no time for it now. Wading through a roiling chill thicker than porridge, she ignored its mute demand and headed for the nearest staircase.