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resourceful enough.
    And you are. You’re all of those things. She felt it in her gut.
    But there was also nothing wrong with taking a risk on kindness. No matter how terrifying it might be. No matter how much the awful little voice in her head disagreed.
    Run, it kept whispering. Run far.
    “If you try anything…,” she began, and stopped, feeling ridiculous.
    “If I try anything…,” he said gently-then he also hesitated, finally sighing. “Never mind. I need some tea. Are you coming?”
    The woman said nothing, but hobbled toward him. He was a big man, no doubt strong, but he did not touch or help her, just kept his pace slow. She appreciated that. Even if he still scared her.
    She was just too desperate to care.

Chapter Four
    While Lannes could not in good conscience disagree with the woman’s assessment that he was indeed an idiot, he knew several things about himself that she did not. First and foremost, he was a Mage-a fairly accomplished one, at that, and therefore capable of knowing certain things about other people that might not or could not be readily divulged.
    He had learned some things about the woman while she lay unconscious.
    She sat before him now in Frederick’s kitchen, perched on a stool at the butcher-block counter. Her blond hair was a fine mess around her face, and the skin around her eyes looked pinched with exhaustion. He had cleaned blood from her chin earlier, after carrying her into the house. Wiped it away with a hot rag. She had looked pained even while asleep.
    Now was little better. A small furrow cut between her eyebrows-a permanent fixture since she had awakened- and her mouth held a worried frown. She had said almost nothing since following him home. Just a nod here, a shake of the head there. Not a word when asked her name, though the anxiety that rolled from her made him never want to inquire again.
    So, they sat. In silence. Regarding each other. The woman clutched a white steaming mug of some aromatic green tea that always gave Lannes a terrible stomachache. He preferred dark brews, breakfast blends steeped in fine Irish Belleek porcelain. Bits of lemon thrown in. No sugar, which for him obscured the taste of a good tea.
    He had his own cup in front of him, half-drained. Fredrick was back in bed, though not likely asleep. Listening to an audiobook, perhaps, or keeping his ear pressed to the door.
    “This is a nice home,” said the woman suddenly, as though the silence was finally too much to bear. She glanced from him to the rest of the kitchen: cream-colored cabinets, sandstone floors and pale accents. Frederick had a woman come every day to cook for him and do the dishes. It had been that way since Clarissa died.
    “It has a lot of heart,” Lannes agreed, and added, “You can eat, you know. Sandwich, leftovers.”
    “Maybe later,” she said, but he knew she intended on bolting as soon as she was able. He had known she would try to escape when he left her alone in that room to dress, though he’d had little choice but to let her try. To do otherwise would have terrified her even more, made her feel like she was in a cage, captured. His own nightmare.
    His puzzle, too. He could still hear a single word, one small word, reverberating from her mind to his.
    Run.
    Lannes pushed back his chair and took his cup to the sink. Felt the woman watching him. Her intensity was unnerving, her eyes so piercing that he half-expected her to see through the illusion to his real face and start screaming. What he was doing, the risk he was taking…
    Frederick was right to question your actions, he thought, dragging a loaf of bread from the cabinet. This is not you.
    Not him. Not entirely. Before the witch had stolen and tortured him and his brothers, he had gone out into the world. He had…mingled, used magic to hide in plain view and had seen…wonders. He had glided through the Himalayas searching for Shangri-la. Perched atop Notre Dame under a full moon and composed lines of bad