"Killed," she whispered.
"Perhaps." He raised his eyes and looked absently out across the sparkling water. Sunlight slanted on his shoulder and her hair, gilding the nape of her white neck where the hair grew blond and fine as a child's. And like a child, still confused by memories of past terror, partly quieted yet still sensitive to every sound or movement, Strelsa lay close to the arm that sheltered her, thinking, wondering that she could endure it, and all the while conscious that the old fear of him was no longer there.
"Do you—know about me?" she asked in a still, low voice.
"About the past?"
"About my marriage."
"Yes."
"Everything?"
"Some things."
"You know what the papers said?"
"Yes.... Don't speak of it—unless you care to, Strelsa."