Her hand fell into her lap. She sat for a second and then shuddered. And then sat again. Finally, she looked up at me. “You did this for me.” “I did.” “It was dangerous.” I nodded. “Madame told you not to.” I nodded again. Very calmly, with that same calm she’d shown the first night we met, she took up her mug and sipped at it. When she set it down again, she said, “Why?” Because I love you. I just sat there, mouth hanging open. How do you even answer a question like that? “Because it needed doing,” I said, which was also true and a hell of a lot less frightening.
