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didn't love her? She thought back to that day in the breakfast room and their painful conversation. He loved her.
    She was sure of it. Duty was in the way. What of that? She could help him execute his duty. That was what people who loved each other did.
    The whole problem with being a woman was that you had to wait for a man to give you what you wanted. You couldn't make a push for it yourself.
    But why? Davie didn't think he could ask her to sacrifice her comfortable ways. But that was exactly what she wanted to do.
    She wanted to make her rebellion real.
    There would be a cost. She'd be leaving behind everything she had known, including Richard. She'd never be received in polite society, ever. There was danger, according to Davie. Davie might be angry. Probably would be angry. She might die with him.
    And what of the cost if she didn't even try? A dry descent into a half-life of regret. That was all she had to look forward to if she retreated from this moment without taking any action.
    Plans formed and re-formed in her mind. Could she do it? How did a gently bred young woman just up and leave for Casablanca? Money, of course. A companion, no, two. Where to get them? She mustn't tell Richard until after she had gone. He wouldn't understand. But Damien would help her. He always had a soft spot for her, and he had an interest in getting her off Richard's hands. Besides, Damien was a believer in true love. He'd brave Richard's wrath. Passage on a packet. Could she even find Davie in Casablanca? Surely the embassy would know where he was. Unless the worst had already happened. But she wouldn't think about that. She'd write to Damien first thing in the morning.

Chapter Four
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    Davie strode through the dusty streets of Casablanca wearing leather boots, a vest over his bare chest, and the loose pants identified with Berbers. Not that anyone would mistake him for one. His pale skin had tanned and his light hair was concealed by a head cloth, but his light eyes betrayed him. The saber hanging from his belt clanked against his thigh. The city would be unbearably hot if not for a hint of the sea in the air. The sun beat down remorselessly even in April. Behind him two bearers he had hired only this morning carried a large wooden box of sabers and a huge pack filled with food, leather pouches of blood, and clean clothing. They had no idea what they carried, and he was careful never to use the same ones twice. He chose only those sitting full in the sun to be sure they weren't vampire, just in case the scent of cinnamon was masked by the aroma of spices or the smell of camel dung.
    How long had he been doing this? Forever. It must seem longer to Rufford and Fedeyah. Now Davie stayed each dawn until they arrived to be sure they could get the blood they needed to heal. The toll their campaign took on them was horrible to behold. There was no question of retreat, though. If humans were raised for their blood and vampires multiplied indiscriminately, both races would die out entirely.
    He fingered the message from Admiral Groton demanding a full report on the status of Casablanca and Rufford's plans for coordinating the effort against Asharti's army. Davie didn't think he wanted Whitehall interfering with Rufford, now or in the future. Rufford was a moral man. Davie smiled to himself. He had never thought to say that about a monster. But it was more than he could say of Whitehall on occasion. He trusted the future of the human race more to Rufford than the Admiral and the Lord High Chancellor.
    Davie directed the bearers into a side alley and up the stairs into a small apartment that would be their shelter tomorrow. He would sleep here tonight to ensure that no one but him was waiting for Rufford and Fedeyah.
    Cinnamon! Davie jerked around, scanning the tiny winding street lined with bright fabrics drying in the sun and filled with children laughing as they darted over the cobblestones. He could see no one suspicious.