It tickled her fancy to imagine Harrowhark falling asleep crying, like any lovelorn child. What a fool. What a destructive, romantic, ridiculous act. It was always a certain kind of ass who approached love like that—a certain kind of very good, talented ass, who had been overly used to their hands on the reins and never could cope when they were taken off—nor had the personality to put them back on again. Ianthe had that type of personality. And she had a few years on Harrow. “Someday I’ll marry that girl,” she said aloud. “It might be good for her.” And: “Probably not, though.” And then
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