Robin LaFevers

I feel grace. Warm and flowing like a river, it pours over me. I am awash in grace and cannot help but raise my face to it as I would the sun. I want to laugh as it rains downs on me, ripples through my limbs, cleanses them of fatigue and self-loathing. I am reborn in this grace, and suddenly, I can do anything.

Getting the poison to them is more difficult than it should be. I cannot just slip it into their food, they eat with the rest of the household, and as much as I dislike everyone here, I am not willing to poison them all. At least not yet.

What do you know of gods and saints?_ I ask, filling my voice with scorn.His fingers drift to the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos on his cloak. __ know that what our saints want is not always made clear to us. Sometimes, it is their wish for us to flail and struggle and come to our own choices, not accept ones that have been made for us.

I point out. It was the most foolish, jape-fisted bit of buffoonery I have ever seen, and I am impressed in spite of that.

A short while later, as I stare down at the bodies of the six men I have just killed, I cannot help but wonder: Do I love killing? Of a certainty, I love the way my body and weapons move as one; I revel in the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact. And of a certainty, I am good at it.

I know I should look away, let him grieve in private, but I cannot. The sweet girl that I knew only briefly is the key to this gentle beast who has captured my heart.

The fault lies not with you_ she says this so gently it makes me want to cry. I have never shed a tear, not throughout all my father__ beatings or guillo__ mauling, but a few kind words from this women and it is all i can do not to bawl like a babe.

He pauses then, studying me. __ow would you have done it?__is question surprises me. __ou mean how would I have killed you?___es. Do you have a favorite method for such things?__ince he knows I am an assassin, there is no need to be coy. __ prefer a garrote. I like the intimacy it allows me when I whisper reminders of vengeance in their ears as they die. But in your case, I had sharpened my favorite knife especially for the occasion.__is brows quirk up. __hy no garrote for me?__ look pointedly at his thick neck, bulging with muscle and sinew. __ do not have one big enough,_ I mutter.

And then, without any warning at all, he presses his lips against mine. As his mouth covers my own, I find myself reeling, as if I have been tipped backward and am falling, falling, so that even the stars in the sky are spinning. His lips are warm and soft, the unrelenting pull of his desire for me as strong as the pull of the waves against the sand. It is not like practicing with Ismae, or even Sybella. It is not like any of the first kisses I have imagined over the years. It is far, far better and more wondrous, and yet terrifying as well, like one of the raging storms that pound against the convent walls in the winter, threatening to breach its defenses. So too does this kiss threaten something deep within me that I cannot even name.

One heart cannot serve two masters.