He bent down and kissed her lips.

She tasted of grapes and innocence, though he believed she was a sorceress in truth. Her body had grown stiff with the surprise of his touch, but quickly relaxed beneath it. Still, her movements were tentative and unschooled. She did not know how to tilt her head, or where to put her hands, or even when to breathe, and it quickly became clear that he was the first man to ever taste her lips.

And oh, by Jupiter, they were sweet.

Steady, he told himself. Slow. And yet they had no time at all. The others would be waiting. Soon one would come to see what was delaying them.

He pressed his lips harder against hers and as he kissed them, it was as if the burdens of his very life began to lift. All the things he needed to remember, all the things he was obliged to do, all of his secrets and all of his lies simply floated out the deckhouse doorway toward the stars.

He wrenched himself away and staggered backward. She had dealt him a blow in the dark. It was as if the pillow were a shield, and her lips two deadly swords. She had slain him, and he feared he would never be the same.

He pushed the knife handle into her palm. “Please, take it,” he whispered. “You must trust me. I mean you no harm.”