Lidia murmured softly, “is bothering you.” “Is it?” duMark asked, spinning as his restless tread once again carried him to the limits of the small bedchamber. “What could possibly have given you that impression?” The young ranger’s lips quirked. “You’re pacing like a caged orc, that’s what. If I’d known you had this kind of stamina, I’d—” The half-elf halted, one hand raised. “Do not even think of finishing that sentence.” The long-legged redhead matched her gaze with his, and he could see the wheels turning behind those eyes. It was she, however, who finally gave. “Sorry, Ananias. I guess I’m still a bit sensitive about it all.” In the months following the assault on the Iron Keep, Father Thomas—longtime companion of Ananias duMark and chirurgeon of the finest order—had worked his hands raw repairing the damage General Falchion had inflicted.
