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endeavor." He looked at her intently. "Perhaps it is a matter of detail. The single small word or phrase that pulls it into focus."
    "And do you see the whole in those moments? Or something else?"
    "Joy," he said, surprising himself, and laughed. "I see joy." He lifted rueful brows. "For me, it is the moments—suddenly I have captured one moment, and whatever is there on the page is not only for me, but for whatever reader comes."
    "Like your letters." Her skirts rustled as she moved toward him. A hint of a smile. "They brought Tuscan sun to my cold winter days."
    He smiled at her. "I was hoping I had done that."
    She sank to the floor by his knee in a puddle of green and gold, her head titled up to him. "You are very good at it."
    She was so close, so relaxed and natural. In his imagination, he put his forehead on her neck, breathed the scent from her skin. "What do you wish most to do?" he asked, then answered himself. "Ah, I know it already: you burn to translate Boccaccio."
    "I do," she admitted, and laughed a little breathlessly. "I am only terrified that I could not do it justice—
    and that even if I did, it would be scorned as the work of a woman."
    Basilio hesitated, then gave in to his impulse and brushed one finger over her cheek. Just once, then away. "Do it," he said softly. "I will slay your detractors for you when you have finished."

    There was a danger in her eyes, suddenly. A heat turning their brown liquid, like chocolate left in the sun.
    He looked away and caught on her shoulders, an endless span of warm flesh he could kiss for hours. His blood stirred, and he raised his hand again to her face.
    Her cheek was small against his palm, the cheekbone and jaw as fragile as the bones of a bird, and that evidence of her mortality pained him. She blinked, slowly, like a cat, and turned her face ever so slightly into his palm.
    He suddenly felt he should confess to her that he was betrothed, that he could not give himself to her even though he wished it more than breath. Perhaps if she knew, they could steal this small time, seal their hearts, one to the other. Perhaps she would not mind, if he explained that his duty required his marriage.
    But just as swiftly, he knew she would mind very much—that at heart, she was honor-bound to the plight of women, as he was bound to the duty of land and family. He could not ask her to make that choice.
    As she leaned softly into his palm, as he took that small offering with the same inner trembling as that of a boy touching his first breast, he regretted bitterly that life had brought his love to him only when he could not claim her.
    If he had been a stronger man, he would have lightened the moment with a jest or a smile. Instead, he lifted his other hand, to put it on her other cheek so he could touch her whole face. "Thank you, Cassandra," he whispered. "You have blessed me by coming."
    She put her hand over his. "As I have been blessed by coming."
    In silent agreement, they only smiled, like the most beloved of friends, then stood up.
    "I am suddenly quite fatigued," she said, smoothing her skirts. "I must retire."
    "Of course. We have much to see tomorrow."
    "Is it terribly far to the sea?"
    "You would like to go?"
    "Very much."
    "Consider it done." He gave her his arm and they walked, each in their own thoughts, to her chamber.
    There she paused, then stood on her toes, and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, Basilio, for sharing all of this with me. I had a glorious day."
    He forced himself to pat her hand and step away, bowing courteously. "My pleasure, dear lady."

Chapter 4
    Cassandra rose early the next morning, excited by the promise of a ride to the seaside. Beyond her balcony the light was gray, and she was ready to be disappointed, but when she flung open the doors, she halted in stunned delight. Rushing out on to the balcony in her nightrail, she leaned on the thick stone balustrade, inhaling the soft air, scented with new, exotic things.
    She