This is the sort of gift you give a queen . . . or a lover. I cross the room and sit heavily on the armchair, putting down the box because my hands are shaking, and I fear I’ll drop it. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, I run my hands through my hair. “Oh, Fates,” I whisper. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” He rises to his feet and looks at me directly, his eyes fevered. The shawl drapes over his arm. “You’ve made me want things; don’t you realize that? Things I should never have wanted. How much easier my life would be if I had never met you!”
