He fell as if down a waterfall: slowly at first, then rushing, head over heel, and then he was over the edge; it was too late to turn back. Gen knew he was falling, but reveled in the feeling of weightlessness; ever mindful of the jagged rocks below that Attolia was, but simply not caring.

She loved him, and hated him for it. Irene may have loved him back, but Attolia could not. He, she would not deign herself to even think his name, was infuriating, stealing first her earrings, then her pity, and finally her heart.

When he was young, Gen thought it was funny to see her get mad. Leave a pair of earrings, just to show that he could and would sneak through one of the most heavily fortified castles. He still did think it was funny, but there this time, he was caught. Attolia was watching, watching him squirm in the chair. Gen stopped. It wouldn't do to act this way if he loved her. He loved her? When did that happen? And so lost was Gen in the new discovery, that he almost missed the small nod Attolia gave. A burly man pinned him down as Attolia pronounced his fate, and then Gen didn't care if she was watching or not. He started to grovel, begging for anything but his hand, but a sudden flash of pain told him it was useless.

When had she started to torture boys? When the [exasperating, annoying, maddening, incorrigible] young thief was fighting, it was easier to treat him like the enemy she knew he had to be, but here, listening to him sob for far longer than humanly possible, she began to doubt herself. No, that would not do. She was queen, and this boy was on her land. He was hers to deal with, and Eddis might finally realize that she was not beloved everywhere. He was not Attolis, he would not bend her heart this way, for though he was noble, she was a queen, damn it. Stiffly, Attolia turned to climb the stairs to the cell that was her bedroom.