"I am glad I killed him," she whispered. "I have never killed anyone before tonight. That I killed him was a gift from God." Simon did not answer at once. Then he said, "Tonight, before Daoud died, he told me that you were innocently drawn into his conspiracy against the alliance. He said he took advantage of my love for you, and that you and he were never close. But now that you've heard he is dead, you are like a woman who has lost a husband or a lover." He stopped. He needed to say no more. She knew what he was asking. The enormous aching void inside her made it almost impossible to think. Daoud, even as he lay dying, had tried to protect her. Simon might have suspicions, but about who she was or what she had done, he knew nothing. Manfred was dead. Tilia, Ugolini and Lorenzo--wherever they might be now--would say nothing. She could, if 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._