"I think he knew," Simon spoke just above a whisper. "I did not feel I had to tell him anything."
Then Daoud had died not knowing that she and Simon had for a moment been lovers. Did it matter? If Daoud had known, perhaps he would have killed Simon instead of just standing over him with his sword.
His not knowing had not hurt Daoud. But it was hurting her.
There was a part of myself I withheld from him. And that was my loss, because much as he loved me, he did not know me fully.
But if she regretted not telling Daoud the truth about that single moment, how could she ever bear to hide from Simon the truth about her whole life?
Could she pretend, forevermore, to be Sophia Orfali, the naive Sicilian girl, the cardinal's niece, with whom Simon had fallen in love? Could she pour all of herself into a mask? Could she live with Simon, enjoying the love and the wealth and power he offered her, knowing that it was all founded on a lie?
No, never. Impossible.
The pain of Daoud's death was nearly unbearable, but it was her pain, true pain. Ever since that night of death in Constantinople—a night much like this—she had not felt at home in the world. Now she saw her place. All she owned in the world was the person she really was, and what she really had done. If she deceived Simon, she would have to deny her very existence.
And I would have to deny the greatest happiness I have ever known, my love for Daoud.
If she lied to Simon, it would be as if Daoud had never been. It would be like killing him a second time. Her heart, screaming even now with her longing for Daoud, would scream forever in silence. Buried alive.