ere was no "if" about what Charles d'Anjou would do, Sophia thought.
That was just Ugolini's courtesy.

"I know, Your Eminence," said Simon, looking grim. "I hope you will
still think of me as your friend, despite events. Just as we have been
friends while we disagreed over this matter of the Tartar alliance."

Ugolini clapped his hands suddenly. "Well, it is a happy occasion when
my niece has such a distinguished visitor. Count, this house has a
second-story loggia overlooking the atrium. It is private enough to
shield you from prying eyes, yet not so private as to place you lovely
young people in peril of temptation. Sophia will show you the way."

Bowing and thanking Ugolini, Simon followed Sophia out of the room.

She turned to Simon as soon as the door of Ugolini's audience chamber
had closed behind them and said, "I need my cloak for the cold. Wait
here, and I will go to my room and get it." Without giving him a chance
to answer, she hurried down the corridor, desperately trying to make
sense of her thoughts and feelings.

Their lovemaking had been a terrible mistake. And yet, there had been
times in those two months when the recollection of the two of them,
wrapped in his cloak, lying on a bed of leaves, the depth of his passion
for her and the wildness of her answering feelings, crept up on her
unexpectedly and sent thrills of pleasure coursing through her.

As she rummaged in her chest for a warm cloak, her eyes met those of her
icon of Saint Simon Stylites, and she felt shame wash over her.

_How can I think that I truly love Daoud, when I gave myself so freely
to his enemy?_

But had that not been what Daoud had expected her to do all along? He
had always been jealous, had always made it obvious that he hated the
idea of her letting Simon court her. And yet, from the time he first
encountered Simon, he had made it equally obvious that he expected
Sophia to do whatever was necessary to make Simon fall in love with her.
And from the moment Simon had kissed her in the Contessa di
Monaldeschi's atrium, he had loved her, and never stopped loving her.

But to make him love her, she had pretended to be an innocent young
Sicilian woman who could be overwhelmed by her love for a French
nobleman. Sadly enough, she felt more joy and peace of mind as that
Sicilian girl than she ever had known as a woman of Byzantium. And the
confusion about who she really was had become much worse after she
decided to keep secre