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no idea where he was going, only that he had to get as far from his father and his politics as he could. His head had begun to pound as he'd listened to all of those men talk about who was the strongest, how much power they each had, and squabble about the possibility that they might have even a smidgen of that power taken away.
    They're determination not to be the next king only increased his certainty that at least some, if not all of them, had gotten together to kill the last king. He wasn't entirely sure what the point of that would have been if none of them were vying for the throne now, but he had a feeling he'd find out over the next couple of weeks, hopefully not months. By then he'd be a prune if this rain continued and Merle might actually attempt to swim back to Italy if he was forced to keep his ship moored at the dock.
    Merle already spent most of his nights on his ship, preferring to sleep on the vessel than at his father's manor. All he would need was the word to go and Merle would be throwing the lines off and sailing from here as quickly as possible. Atticus knew exactly how he felt, but he wasn't given the choice on where he could sleep. As his father liked to constantly remind him, even when there was a king on the throne, because of his pure bloodline Atticus was considered a prince amongst their kind, and princes didn't sleep on ships when they had newly built manors to reside in.
    There were times he thoroughly enjoyed what his position in life offered him. He had plenty of money, lots of power and a bevy of women at his service. There were other times, like when his life choices were taken away from him, that he despised his social status and cursed his position. Being forced back to England and into the manor was one of those times.
    He'd been so focused on his thoughts that he hadn't realized where he was until he entered the clearing where just yesterday he had met Genevieve and her sister. Pulling the hood back from his head, he wiped away the rain that had beaded across his brow and looked around the clearing. The trees glistened with water, the air held a misty quality to it as fog crept through the underbrush and stole across the ground like spirits drifting through a graveyard.
    With the fog came the scent of mint and aster on the air. This wasn't where he had intended to come when he'd left the manor but something had drawn him here, or rather someone. He kicked his foot free of the stirrup and dismounted Drago as she stepped around the same large elm as yesterday. The hood of the deep red cloak she wore was pulled over her head but he could still make out her pale skin and the black hair that framed her face.
    "Are you lost?" she inquired.
    "Sometimes I think I am." Those weren't the words he'd meant to say, in fact he'd meant to laugh off her question, but now that the words were out of his mouth he realized just how true they actually were.
    Her raven eyes flickered over his clothes as her forehead furrowed. He didn't know what he was expecting as a response, something terse and indifferent, maybe even no response at all, but when she spoke she didn't respond in either of those ways. "Sometimes we are all lost, at one point in time or another in our lives."
    He found himself entranced by her peculiar insight. "I suppose we are. What happens if we are never found though?"
    "Well." She stepped away from the tree and climbed gracefully down a couple of rocks so that she was level with him. "I like to believe that there's always something, or someone, that will help us find our way."
    "And what happens if we don't recognize the help when we find that something or someone?"
    "Then fate hits us over the head until it wakes us up."
    He chuckled at her answer but he had to force himself to keep his hands down by his side as the urge to push the hood back from her face took hold of him. "And what happens if we find it but then lose it again?"
    Her smile slid away as she frowned thoughtfully. "Well I