Jerome, lost in thought, made no attempt to initiate any immediate conversation, and Meg was thankful for it. It gave her time to pull herself together, recover at least the appearance of composure. How quickly things could change, she thought shakily. Only an hour or so before they'd been companions, almost friends. Now the truce was over, and the swords were out again. She stole a glance at him. There was tautness in every line of his face. If he was thinking about the woman at the mas, his train of thought didn't seem to be providing him with any particular pleasure. She could sense that hidden anger in him, like some volcano waiting to erupt. Perhaps her appearance at the mas had caused some serious breach between them which couldn't be simply shrugged off. But that was hardly her fault. 'What were you saying to Octavien?' His voice broke abruptly across her troubled reverie. 'A touch of reassurance, which didn't work.' She paused, adding carefully, 'Octavien doesn't want any re-creation of the past either.' Jerome too was silent for a moment.
