Daria grieved, grieved as she had not since her own parents died. Armand’s passing, Gianni’s imprisonment, the wedge that death had placed between them and the house of Les Baux—brought up unspent tears over Basilio and Rune, as well as tears of fear over their collective future, her baby’s future. She had wanted to see Anette home, to accompany her and grieve with her as Armand was burned upon his funeral pyre, as Basilio, Rune, and the count had been burned in the past month. She had wanted to hear Anette sing as the flames reached the sky and she sent her prayers up to God with both villager and priest and family member. But Anette had gently, firmly told her to stay where she was. “I shall return to you all, Daria,” she said, holding her hands in the receiving courtyard of the manor. “But I must take some time. To pray through this, accept it, before I have the strength to fight alongside you once again.” Daria nodded, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. “Daria,”
