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like to see her restrained this way, she knew, but the resentful queen had insisted that whenever Sanura was not in her quarters, she would be restrained. Seeing Sanura in chains gave the queen a sense of satisfaction, a sense of ease. Even though her skin was slightly chafed, Sanura did not hold a grudge against the queen. The pitiful woman was insecure. Jealous. Lacking.
    If it were entirely up to the queen, these quarters would likely be in the dungeon of this fine castle, or else Sanura would be forced to share a stable with the horses. The king was smarter than his sad wife, and understood that he was obligated to care for the gift he’d been given, even if he did not wish to—or was not allowed to—touch her.
    When Paki and Kontar, her guards and countrymen, left her alone, Sanura sat before the small mirror in her room. She opened the ornate box at the center of the table, then took a fine brush and dipped it into the powder there. When she touched the powder to her skin, it turned almost liquid, it became the paint which covered her. She repaired the makeup on her wrists, where the shackles had very lightly marred their smoothness. The dense powder was not easy to remove, but the constant rubbing of the shackles had marked her. She had been assigned two maids who could see to such ministrations, but the servants disliked her as much as the jealous queen, so it was easier—and more pleasant—to see to such simple matters herself.
    As she tended to the imperfection, Sanura’s thoughts dwelled upon what tomorrow would bring. She was ready to leave this place where her gifts were not appreciated, where she was forced to spend most of her days in this lonely room without sunlight or companionship. She did not know what her new position would bring, but it would surely be different from this lonely existence, and so there was hope that her circumstances would improve.
    The one who was to escort her to another, the one they called Prince Alixandyr, was intrigued by the blue, as were many men who were unaccustomed to the ways of the Agnese, but he was not repulsed by her the way many men of this country were. So many she had met were either frightened of her gift or repulsed by the color of her skin. She did not care what any man who was so squeamish and narrow-minded thought of her, so her feelings were never hurt by their rejection. A man who was afraid to have another look into his soul obviously had something to hide.
    Prince Alixandyr was unlike the others in more ways than one. Not only was he not frightened by her differences, he also had a black and empty space inside him that she could not read. He did not always think of himself as Alixandyr or Alix, but sometimes thought of himself by another name, a name she could not quite catch. It was odd, even alarming. Though he was not an imposter, he was also not entirely as he presented himself. She could see that he was a soldier and a politician, dedicated to his country and his brother and not entirely happy with his life—yet neither was he unhappy. He did what needed to be done without complaint, and he possessed a nobility which would not allow one such as the queen to do murder in the name of jealousy.
    Sanura had learned that very few people in this world were honest about who they really were. Most hid behind faces that were forced, and they pretended to be what they were expected to be or what they wanted to be. For that reason she never attempted to disguise who she was. She never pretended, or hid behind false words and faces.
    The females of the Agnese were not seers or sages. They did not see what the future might bring, nor did they see into the past. What they saw was who a person—especially a man—was at the pit of his soul. Fears, desires, strengths, and weaknesses, with a bit of concentration an Agnese female could see them all. When Sanura had looked into the prince from Columbyana, she had glimpsed strength and nobility and ordinary male