Could there be a snare in too much beauty? Could there be too much expectation of good, and too much fiath? Could ever there be too much love? And could love require lies?
But, oh, how precious those things were! To look at the sky, breathe the cold wind, have fingers nipped by chill and skin stung red and heart stirred to life, gods, he had been dead until Tristen arrived and asked him the first vexing question, and p...
