"The young count will probably be leading the fight on the battlements." Daoud tasted the venom in what he was about to say, but he could not help himself. "It will be quite a shock when he finds the Tartars dead and realizes how he has failed."
Sophia stood breathing hard, her eyes glistening with tears. "If only you were not—"
Daoud was already wishing he had not spoken so to her. "Not what?"
"Not blind!" she cried.
She turned swiftly and reached for the door handle. But Daoud could not let her go. He was there before her, and he faced her and seized her hand.
"I am not blind," he rasped. "I see that pretending to be what you are not is tearing you apart. I wish we could be our true selves with each other—"
"We cannot," she said bitterly. "And to speak of it only makes it hurt more. Let me go."
He relaxed his grip on her hand, and she was gone.
Some day, he thought. Some day, Sophia.
Looking at the closed door, Daoud felt an almost unbearable inner pain. He had thrust her at Simon. He had lashed out at her, hurt her unjustly. Having done that to her, he was about to put her in far worse danger.