Free Thief of Light by Denise Rossetti Page A

gold.
    She ignored Rose’s murmur, the comforting press of her fingers. “I was stupid, yes, but I was only eighteen and he was ten years older. He had me tied in knots—flattered, besotted.” Dipping forward, she rested her forehead against the cool of the glass. “It’s funny what things you remember. He could juggle, Chavis. It was his party trick.” Her eyes burned.
    “When my parents refused permission, I . . . I ran away with him to Caracole, and we got married. At least”—she pressed her lips together—“I think it was a real Bonding. It may not have been. I no longer care.”
    Resolutely, she turned and met her friend’s concerned gaze. “He left us flat, Rose, that’s how much we meant to him. Katrin was so small, she could barely toddle. He took everything, the bastard, not just our savings, but my clothes as well, every stitch. Gambling debts, I suppose. He always loved the deep play. When I couldn’t pay the rent, the landlord put us out. I had nothing, not a single cred. Nothing!”
    She bared her teeth, the breath sawing in her lungs with remembered terror. “We spent three nights on the streets in the worst part of the Melting Pot. It was—” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I never thought there were things worse than dying, but gods, what I saw . . . But I did it, I kept us safe. Katrin and I, we survived. The gods help those who help themselves, I always say. Chavis didn’t do so well. They found his body in the canal a month later. Knifed.”
    With a murmur of pain, the other woman tried to envelop her in a hug, but Prue held her off. “Rosarina,” she said steadily, “don’t match-make for me, don’t you dare.”
    “I’m not matchmaking, not really.” But Rose didn’t look away, didn’t have the grace to look in the least guilty. “But you haven’t—Not for such a long time. Who was the last? I can’t even remember his name. It’s not natural.”
    Prue tilted her chin. “Neither have you,” she pointed out.
    Rose refused to be diverted. “Yes, but I’m perfectly happy; you’re not.” Her lips quirked. “Dearest, you can’t fool a courtesan of my experience. I saw your face. You want him.”
    “Do not.”
    Rose laughed outright. “Do too.”
    “This is childish. And pointless.”
    When Rose crossed her eyes and poked her tongue out, Prue couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh, you !” she said, giving her friend the finger.
    They collapsed, laughing, against each other’s shoulders.
    “Excuse me. Mistress Rose?”
    Their heads jerked around.
    “I brought him, like you asked.”
    That was self-evident. Framed by the doorway, Erik the Golden loomed behind little Tansy, his eyes bright with interest as he glanced from Prue to Rose and back again. He’d obviously heard the hilarity, but what about the conversation that had preceded it?
    Fighting a furious blush, Prue wiped her eyes and marshaled her forces.
    “Thank you, Tansy,” said Rose, still smiling. “Better run to the fighting salle now. Walker and the others will be waiting.”
    Erik patted the girl’s shoulder. “You did well today, sweetheart,” he said, and he sounded absolutely sincere. Pink with pleasure, the apprentice bobbed a curtsey and trotted away, her step light.
    One dark gold brow rose. “You have a fighting salle?”
    “Indeed we do,” said Prue crisply. There’d been a sword duel in the Demon King , choreographed with great skill, Erik Thorensen moving through the steps with such grace and masculine power. She could imagine him in the airy space of the salle all too clearly, stripped to the waist, that magnificent chest gilded with sweat, muscles bunching and flexing with the rise and fall of the blade.
    She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, opened them again. Sanity prevailed. Gods, a real swordsmaster like Walker would carve an actor, a fake , to bloody ribbons. With some difficulty, she suppressed the curl of her lip. “Our gardener also happens to be a swordsman of