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See, I'll just put it down right here..."
    He made a move to place the fan on her desk—the desk where the notes for her newest "seditious" pamphlets were piled. He could not see those. Eliza dropped the paper knife as she dove for the fan, snatching it from his hand as she landed hard atop the desk, sitting on those incriminating papers.
    "Very well," she said breathlessly, trying to cross her legs as if she hadn't a care in the world. "You have fulfilled your errand."
    He gave her a coaxing smile. "Aren't you even going to thank me?"
    "Thank you."
    She studied him carefully in the firelight, the sudden glow in his eyes, the warming of his smile. He looked more like the old Will now, and she didn't want to think about that at all. Why would he not just go?
    "Oh, Eliza," he said softly, as if speaking to a skittish horse. "Can we not sit down and talk, just for a moment? For old times' sake?"
    Suddenly weary of acting, of her armor, she pushed back those papers before stalking over to the brocade chairs grouped by the fireplace. The flames flickered weakly against the cold night outside.
    She wrapped her dressing gown closer, not looking directly at him but at the orange simmer of the fire. Yet she was achingly aware of him as he sat down across from her, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her.
    "Well?" she said again. "Why are you really here?"
    His smile dropped. "I came because you would not listen to me at the assembly rooms," he said, his voice low and solemn. "You were quite right, of course. A crowded party is not the place to speak of such things."
    Eliza curled her fingers over the arm of her chair, grasping so tightly the gilded wood bit into her palm, pressing her wedding ring deep into her finger. "What sort of things?" she said dismissively. "Here in Dublin, we don't have the social delicacy of London. I hear people discussing such things as birching their servants, starving out tenants' children when they don't make the rent, nailing up the doors of Catholic chapels—right in the middle of fine banquets."
    Will slumped back in his chair, shaking his head in exasperation. His dark gold hair, streaked almost white in places by the tropical sun, gleamed in the firelight It all made her ache with sadness for what could have been—for what could never be.
    "Eliza, you are more stubborn than ever," he said. "But I fear your stubbornness can't save you from what is coming. You play a dangerous game, and people know about it"
    She grasped the chair's arm even tighter. "So you are a Castle spy."
    "I am a spy for no man!" he scoffed.
    "Then what 'people' do you speak of? What do you think is coming that I must be protected from?"
    "Eliza, please, don't play games. Not with me. You and your friends the Fitzgeralds may enjoy playing at revolution. Maybe you both think your family and position will protect you. But nothing can protect you, or anyone, if Ireland explodes."
    "I do not play games, Will." She stood up, unable to sit still any longer, and leaned against the carved fireplace mantel. She stared down into the dying fire, but what she saw was her beloved country in flames, the green fields scorched. Herself, her family and friends, Will—all of them consumed.
    She feared it, yes. How could she not? She lived and breathed for Ireland, for what it meant and what it could be. She worked so hard for change and for justice. She had to keep believing, no matter what Will said.
    "Then you should secure your house better, Lady Mount Clare," he said, coming to stand beside her. He stood very close to her, the warmth of his body, the clean scent of him, and the memories of his touch reaching out to wrap around her senses like an alluring caress.
    She closed her eyes against it, but it just made the longing worse. She had been alone for so long—for always, it seemed. She had missed Will for so long, and now he was here, so close she could reach out and touch him.
    But they were different people now, and