empty. The gypsy vardo slid into a rut and jerked sharply, throwing her head back against the planks. She awoke with a start.
In the darkness beside her, the driver called Arturi cleared his throat. The caravan was returning to Darkon.
The hours after the birth had been a blur. Marguerite had babbled incoherently, unable to control herself, terrified and yet ashamed. Her life, her body, her mind-not one had seemed her own.
Zosia had taken care of the arrangements. What Jacqueline had said was true-Darkon was a place for forgetting. Soon after Marguerite returned to its soil, she would cease to recall her former life. A new identity would rise to take its place. Arturi had agreed to take her just across the border. He claimed it was safer there; trouble was brewing at the heart of the domain. Marguerite did not care. One place in Darkon was as good as the other.
The wagon approached the fork and veered left.
As they slipped between the towering pines, Marguerite spied a dark-haired rider just behind the veil of the forest, astride a black horse. He tipped his hat and flashed a smile, then was gone.
Marguerite shut her eyes again.
She was going back to Darkon.
And in Darkon, she would forget.
