Fiston. My father had called me fiston. Roused from my thoughts, I did not know where I would find myself: back in the forests of Béarn with my father or in the Château of Souboscq with the viscount. “Pardon me, Cousin.” If ever clarity of thought and purpose were needed, this was the time. But… He folded trembling hands atop the table where he was sitting. “Do you think you can do it?” Could I? My cousin’s lack of choices had ensured I had none. I had no choice but to do whatever was necessary to avoid being caught while I smuggled lace into France. “You will have to be discreet.” I was the soul of discretion. None had ever guessed I had once been an urchin and a thief. Nor had any ever accused me of being a murderer. I had left that life far behind me, and now I was being asked to return to it. Everything within me cried out against it. But the voice of Lisette cried louder still.
