All his life—every little hour of it—he had spent in control. In his Father’s control, yes, but in control of others, too. There was nothing he had needed that could not be gotten by a word. A shout. A command. He had not needed to be alone. He had not needed to pray as he prayed now. For his father. For his sister. For himself. But he was surprised that it was himself he thought of last—least—and he knew that if he had to choose, he would choose Sabine’s life over his own. Sabine. She was the more cunning, the more temperate, the more learned.
