'Fool!' she castigated herself sharply, reaching for a handkerchief and scrubbing at her eyes. It was madness, all this raking up of the past. What had happened between Gethyn and herself was past, done and quite irrevocable. She knew that. Why else was she here? By letting memory have its way with her, she was simply re-opening old wounds which she had wrongly presumed were healed. It was disquieting to discover how vulnerable she still was. The past two years of solitariness had simply spread a thin veneer of acceptance over raw and tangled emotions. She got up restlessly and thrust open the window, staring up at the looming bulk of the mountain. Every scrap of reason she possessed was warning her to get away from this place—that now was not the time for her confrontation with Gethyn. She could leave the papers that Uncle Philip had sent and depart first thing in the morning, she told herself. She would abandon the idea of any kind of personal appeal to Gethyn, and leave all future negotiations in the hands of her solicitor.
