For the moment she continued to take notes, following Bohannon’s observations and descriptions as he continued on horseback from the beach, through groves of orange and lemon trees—the blossoms perfuming the sweet night air.

“We can surmise spring—orange blossoms.”

“That’s considering the island runs on the same rules of seasons as this world,” Doyle pointed out. “And on this side of the equator.”

“Point.” And a damn good one, she had to admit. “But we stick with the physical location, at Bo’s time and place, and we get spring. Surmising. A well-kept island, too. He talks of the groves, the wide, dry road—lit with torches. A full moon, which also helps estimating a time. The silver palace—you have to wonder if that’s literal or just prose.”

She filled in details as he read. Expansive gardens, women in flowing gowns, music piping through open doors and windows, out onto wide terraces. The new queen’s standard—a white dove soaring over a blue sea—flew atop every tower.

Doyle got as far as the entrance hall—brilliant tapestries, gilded trees flowering in silver urns—when he put the book down.

“If I have to read interior design, I’m going to need more than a beer.”

“And when I can describe the island, the palace—in detail—to Sasha, she can draw it. And drawing it might trigger a vision. The vision might get us closer.”

He finished off his beer, set it down. “That’s a good idea.”

“I have lots of them.”

“You have lots of ideas. Some of them are good.”

“If you want another beer, bring me down some water. I went up last time. And I need ten.”

“Ten what?”

“Ten minutes.” She pushed away from the table, went to the sofa by the fire, stretched out. And was asleep in a finger snap.

Doyle appreciated the skill, one a soldier developed. Sleep on command, sleep anywhere.

He left her to it, wandered upstairs and decided water was likely the better choice for now. Opening a bottle, he drank while walking to one of the windows.

A fist closed around his heart, twisted viciously. From here he could see the well, one he’d fetched water from countless times in his youth. Bran had kept it, made it part of a garden area. A garden Doyle knew his mother would have found charming.

Flowers, shrubs, small trees, winding paths ran over what had once been a plot for crops, and the stables were long gone. Likely gone to rubble before Bran had bought the land.

He made himself look out, look over to the gravestones, and felt a new jolt when he saw Annika kneeling beside his mother’s grave, arranging . . . flowers and little stones, he noted.

She had the sweetest heart, he thought, the kindest he’d ever known. And he’d known kindness in his time, as well as brutality. She shifted, took more flowers from her basket, arranged these on his father’s grave, along with her pebbles.

She would do this, show these people she’d never known this respect.

And he’d yet to walk out to them.

Nothing there but dust, he told himself, but in his own heart he knew better. Riley had the right of it. Symbols did matter, and respect should be paid.

But for now, he turned away, went back down the stairs.

He took a good long look at Riley. She slept flat on her back, her head on one of the fancy pillows, her arms crossed over her belly at the wrist. A sheathed knife on her belt.

He imagined if she’d had her hat, she’d have tipped it over her face.

It wasn’t bad as faces went. It was no Annika, but few were. But she had good bones that would likely serve her well into old age—if she lived that long. A strong jaw that could take a punch, a wide mouth that always had something to say.

He supposed the short hair suited the face, even though he suspected she hacked at it with her own knife when needed.

He’d been known to do the same.

He remembered the first time he’d seen her in wolf form—that night on Corfu, in the midst of battle. The shock of it, the absolute magnificence of her as she’d stared him down with those gilded eyes.

Eyes that had wept for him when she’d thought him dead.

He’d forgotten what it was to have a woman weep for him.

He hadn’t allowed himself to have a woman for anything other than the most basic release in a lifetime or two. Looking at Riley now, reminding himself she wasn’t remotely the type of woman he’d ever been attracted to, he wondered why she should make him think of that release, and more.

Likely because they were the only two of the six who weren’t getting that release. Probably just that simple.

Then she opened her eyes, looked directly into his, and he knew it was far from simple.

“Problem?” she demanded.

“Your ten minutes are up.”

“Right.”

She sat up, stretched, and he swore he saw the wolf in the gesture.

When she stood, he remained where he was, blocking her.

“Repeat. Problem?”

“No. I forget you’re short.”

“I’m not short. I’m average. You’re taller than average.”

“You’re short,” he said flatly, and moved aside. “I’ll give this another hour, then I have to move, get some air.”

“I hear that. I wonder who’s in charge of lunch.”

“You’re hungry again?”

“It’s the cycle. It keeps the metabolism on a slow burn. Anyway, another hour or so and we should be able to finish the journal. Did you read any more while I took ten?”