Kat looked down at her lemonade. 'Do you think he betrayed the love of his life. . . because of us?' 'She used the name Romani, Kat,' was Gabrielle's answer. 'And besides. . . ' She let the words draw out. Her gaze went to the distance, and there was a sense of peace in the way she said, 'WE'RE the love of his life. ' She raised her glass again. 'To family.
I will never be without information,' she determined. 'I will do better than my sisters. If a bird or any other beast comes out of that uncanny republic where husbands are grown, I will see him with his skin off before I agree to fall in love. ' For this is how Marya Morevna surmised that love was shaped: an agreement, a treaty between two nations that one could either sign or not as they pleased.