he laughed heartily and she ran through the nameless gate into the jum- bled red sandstones piled beyond it. Indignation got the better other; she wished all manner of minor disasters upon the workman who had not recognized her as a happily married matron and implied propositions never suggested to a S’danzo seeress.
She ate the creamy cheese without tasting it. The fire of her shame burned inwardly now, illuminating the misunderstanding with which the world treated her. It wasn’t as if she asked for so much, Illyra reminded herself. It was pure selfishness and stubbornness that kept those who claimed to love her from understanding that her world-her promise of happiness-had ended when Lillis died. If they really loved her they would commiserate with her and cease their meaningless efforts to jolly her out of mourning.
Her life was a tragedy: a slow dirge relentlessly playing between Lillis’s death and her own. She’d become a martyr-and was comfortable with that identity.
“You should not scowl so.”
Illyra sent the basket flying and stared into the sun, unable to recog- nize the man who spoke so familiarly to her.
“And you should be more careful where and how you make your personal storms.”
Not about to be scolded by a stranger-or anyone else, for that matter -Illyra was tempted to break her private vows and launch a full-fledged S’danzo curse in his direction. But something she did not understand restrained her. She clambered down from her perch and gathered her scattered meal instead.