“My laurels,” I repeated. “Such as they are, I fling them into your lap.”
“Do you think they increase your value to me, Hugh?”
“I don't know,” I said thickly.
She shook her head.
“No, it's you I like—not the laurels.”
“But if you care for me—?” I began.
She lifted up her hands and folded them behind the knot of her hair.
“It's extraordinary how little you have changed since we were children, Hugh. You are still sixteen years old, that's why I like you. If you got to be the sultan of sultans yourself, I shouldn't like you any better, or any worse.”
“And yet you have just declared that power appeals to you!”
“Power—yes. But a woman—a woman like me—wants to be first, or nothing.”