she chose, become the person Simon thought she was--the
person who had given herself to Simon in love at the lake outside
Perugia. She need only seize the chance Daoud had given her.

In all Italy there was no place for her now. Once again she belonged
nowhere and to no one. And she could be a wife to this good young man.
She could be the Countess de Gobignon, with a station in life, with
power to accomplish things, to change the world.

"You want to know what Daoud meant to me," she said. "Did you tell him
what I meant to you?" She was amazed at how level her voice sounded.

"I think he knew," Simon spoke just above a whisper. "I did not feel I
had to tell him anything."

Then Daoud had died not knowing that she and Simon had for a moment been
lovers. Did it matter? If Daoud had known, perhaps he would have killed
Simon instead of just standing over him with his sword.

His not knowing had not hurt Daoud. But it was hurting her.

_There was a part of myself I withheld from him. And that was my loss,
because much as he loved me, he did not know me fully._

But if she regretted not telling Daoud the truth about that single
moment, how could she ever bear to hide from Simon the truth about her
whole life?

Could she pretend, forevermore, to be Sophia Orfali, the naive Sicilian
girl, the cardinal's niece, with whom Simon had fallen in love? Could
she pour all of herself into a mask? Could she live with Simon, enjoying
the love and the wealth and power he offered her, knowing that it was
all founded on a lie?

_No, never. Impossible._

The pain of Daoud's death was nearly unbearable, but it was _her_ pain,
true pain. Ever since that night of death in Constantinople--a night
much like this--she had not felt at home in the world. Now she saw her
place. All she owned in the world was the person she _really_ was, and
what she _really_ had done. If she deceived Simon, she would have to
deny her very existence.

_And I would have to deny the greatest happiness I have ever known, my
love for Daoud._

If she lied to Simon, it would be as if Daoud had never been. It would
be like killing him a second time. Her heart, screaming even now with
her longing for Daoud, would scream forever in silence. Buried alive.

Simon must already suspect the truth. He might try to believe whatever
she told him about herself. Still, some awareness of his self-deception
would remain with him, even if he refused to think about it. It wou