Still, she had a feeling that if Percy ever managed to get out from under his father's thumb he might grow into a halfway decent human being. No one she would want to see on a regular basis, of course, but he certainly wouldn't go around attacking innocent women if his father didn't order him to do so.

Just then she heard her captor's footsteps in the hall. She quickly wiped her face free of its smile and placed one hand on her neck. When he reentered the room, she was coughing.

“I have a treat for you,” he said, his voice suspiciously cheerful.

She cocked her head in reply.

“Look at this. Paper. Quills. Ink. Isn't it exciting?”

She blinked, pretending not to understand. Oh, blast, she hadn't considered this. There was no way she was going to convince him she didn't know how to write—she was clearly an educated woman. And it went without saying that she wasn't going to be able to manage to sprain her wrist in the next three seconds.

“Oh, of course,” he said with exaggerated solicitude. “You require something upon which to lean. How inconsiderate of me not to consider your needs. Here, let me bring over this desk blotter. There you are, right on your lap. Are you comfortable?”

She glared at him, preferring his anger to his sarcasm.

“No? Here, let me fluff your pillows.”

He leaned forward, and Caroline, who really had had enough of his sugary-sweet attitude, coughed onto his mouth and nose. By the time he drew back far enough to glare at her, her face was a picture of complete contrition.

“I'm going to forget you did that,” he bit off, “for which you ought to be eternally thankful.”

Caroline just stared down at the writing accouterments on her lap, desperately trying to devise a new plan.

“Now then, shall we begin?”

Her right temple itched, and she brought up her hand to scratch it. Her right hand. That was when it came to her. She had always favored her left hand. Her early teachers had scolded, screamed, and prodded, trying to get her to learn to write with her right hand. They'd called her bizarre, unnatural, and ungodly. One particularly religious tutor had even referred to her as the spawn of the devil. Caroline had tried to learn how to write with her right hand—oh Lord, how she had tried—but though she could grip the quill in a natural fashion, she'd never been able to master anything other than an unintelligible scrawl.

But everyone else wrote with their right hand, her teachers had insisted. Surely she didn't want to be different.

Caroline coughed to cover up her smile. Never before had she been more delighted to be “different.” This fellow would expect her to write with her right hand, as he and the rest of his acquaintances undoubtedly did. Well, she'd be happy to give him what he wanted. She reached out with her right hand, picked up a quill, dipped it in the ink, and looked at him with bored expectation.