The Alchemist's Daughter

“Isidora.”

Lucien’s voice, smooth and rich and heady. He was here with her, as if summoned by her thoughts of him, just as spirits—and devils—were summoned. Despite his coming up behind her, she did not jump in startlement.

Instead she was suffused by a flood of warmth. Nay, this was all wrong! She must stay strong and keep her heart her own….

“Isidora?”

The weight of his hand upon her shoulder. She closed her eyes. She would not speak, would not move, was glad she was already sitting. Maybe he would go away.

“Isidora, I do not know why you are here, or why you are garbed as a man, or who this person in my bed is to you, but…”

The intensity in Lucien’s resonant voice made her open her eyes. Now he was on his knees before her. His eyes shone in brilliant blue contrast to his blood and dirt-darkened skin—indeed, his face appeared little better than it had the last time she had seen him, but was still so handsome that he was almost painful to look upon. She shifted her gaze to the bed where Faris lay heaped with furs.

Lucien plucked the bowl of wine from her fingers and engulfed her cold hands in his even colder ones. “You shield yourself in silence, Isidora. It is not necessary.”

“Is it not? Silence reveals much, if one is patient.”

“But you must have news…an explanation?”

“I am on a grim errand, Lord Lucien. I will explain it when I am ready. Not before.”

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