Rafaello stood beside him, his complexion blanched, his gaze fixed on the wicked boulders scattered at the base of the tower. “The princess is mad.” “More than mad.” Danior shoved the lock of hair off his forehead. She was crazy, insane, totally feckless and without concern for her own safety. “We could have found her at the bottom.” Rafaello turned even paler. “All bloody and whimpering . . .” “Don’t think about it,” Danior said. As usual, Rafaello was squeamish Unusually, Danior found himself to be a little squeamish at the thought of her, lying broken and lifeless . . . Danior used to think he understood women. In fact, he had flattered himself into believing he understood them very well. On the whole they were a simple gender, delighted by little tokens of affection and awed by a man’s wisdom and attentions. Some men disagreed with Danior. Victor told him bluntly that women only acted amiably because he was a prince. Victor said that when women were on a manhunt, they dissembled and simpered.
