The sun was setting, casting orange and yellow pillars across the sky, causing the clouds to appear as dark, ominous shadows of foreboding. Cristabel surmised it had been near an hour since she had left Claire Navarrone—since she had fled in search of isolated mourning. She had wept, sobbed bitter tears of heartbreak and despair. Yet resignation had found her at last, and she knew what must be done. Cristabel knew she must confess the truth to Trevon—tell him of having seen his sister laboring as a serving wench at La Petite Grenouille. He must be told that he could champion her—bring Vienne home to her mother and her brother, who loved her and desperately needed a healing to their pain of loss. Still, she knew that in telling him all she had seen—all she had kept from him—Trevon Navarrone would never forgive her sin of omission. He was too weathered, too beaten with loss, privateering, battle, and patriotism to forgive her such a thing.
