Free Borne in Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

do, any other understanding is folly.”
    She considered this, her face somber. “What was it that drew you to me? I can’t imagine it was my beauty or my manner.”
    He took almost a minute to frame his answer. “It was your honesty that led me to seek you out. Manner and beauty change from year to year, and what is handsome at one time is brutish at another; honesty is a constant, and rarer than pleasing faces.” He touched her chin lightly, smiling briefly. “You did not try to flatter me, or to deny your grief. You did not batten on me, or on any man, although the law and custom would encourage you to do so. You have made your own way in difficult circumstances.” He took a step away from her. “Such force of character commands respect.”
    “And Madelaine de Montalia?” As soon as she said the name, she bit her lower lip and averted her eyes.
    Ragoczy took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. “Madelaine knew me for what I am—for all that I am—from the very beginning, and had no fear of me. For such as I, that encompassing is beyond reckoning.” He kissed the side of her mouth. “Do not fret: you have nothing to worry about on her account.”
    “I’m not worried,” she said staunchly. Then she swallowed hard. “Not too much.”
    “You need not worry at all,” said Ragoczy. “Neither she nor I can provide what the other seeks.”
    “But I feel so … haunted.”
    “Haunted?” He paused. “Not by Madelaine, surely?”
    “By Madelaine, by Fridhold, even by my children, although they are alive.” She reached for her handkerchief, tucked into the breast-pocket of her walking-coat. “I didn’t intend to … Comte, pardon me.” She dabbed at her eyes, embarrassment overtaking her with other emotions.
    “Everyone is haunted,” Ragoczy assured her gently. “By the loss of friends and relations, the fading of youth, the opportunities lost—all haunt us. It is one of the prices of living.”
    “That may be so,” she said, doing her best to regain her self-possession.
    Five hundred years before he might have told her that in time she would understand, but he knew now that such assertions meant little to the living, particularly to the young, who felt the weight of time more sharply than those who reached old age; he took her mittened hand and kissed it. “You have been given hard choices, and you have made them without flinching. That is a true accomplishment.”
    “I have flinched often,” she said by way of confession.
    “And mastered it,” said Ragoczy.
    “Have I? Sometimes I wonder.” She turned her head sharply as a large dog began to bark, running toward them from out of a lane ahead of them.
    “Stay still,” Ragoczy told her as he stepped forward to intercept the dog.
    The animal was chestnut-colored with black smudges around his eyes and muzzle; his coat was shaggy from winter and mottled from shedding, and his paws were caked in mud. He bounded up to Ragoczy, barking enthusiastically. He leaped up and struck out with his paws, half in challenge, half in play. His barking became higher, turning almost to puppylike yips.
    “Be careful,” Hero called.
    “Oh, Behemoth will not hurt me, not intentionally,” said Ragoczy. “He is just expressing his delight at being out for the day. A dog his size frets in confinement, and this winter he had more than his fill of it.” He held the dog’s front paws in his hands with seeming lack of effort even while the big dog bounced energetically on his hind legs, tongue lolling. “This is all very well, Behemoth, but it is fitting that you should get down now.” Firmly but without overt force, he settled the big dog on the ground. “You can come now, Hero. He won’t fly at you.”
    “I hope that’s true,” she said dubiously.
    “It is. Unless he’s badly startled.” He stood back from the dog and held his hand out for Hero.
    She allowed him to guide her past the dog, who lay on the matted weeds at the side of the