He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. Then her fingers moved. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way.
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