“Leave it to the English to fabricate a lake,” she tossed over her shoulder to Carla, who snickered.“And leave it to the Italians to fall into it!”“I was retrieving my hat!”“Ah . . . that makes it all much more logical. Do you even know how to swim?”“Do I know how to swim?” she asked, and he took more than a little pleasure in her offense.“I was raised on the banks of the Adige! Which happens to be a real river.”“Impressive,” he said, not at all impressed. “And tell me, did you ever swim in said river?”“Of course! But I wasn’t wearing”—she waved a hand to indicate her dress—“sixteen layers of fabric!”“Why not?”“Because you don’t swim in sixteen layers of fabric!”“No?”“No!”“Why not?” He had her now.“Because you will drown!”“Ah,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Well, at least we’ve learned something today.”

“My mom said she learned how to swim when someone took her out in the lake and threw her off the boat. I said, 'Mom, they weren't trying to teach you how to swim.”

“He said, and his voice was strained as if he had had a mortal wound, 'Gwenhwyfar-' He so seldom spoke her formal name, it was always my lady or my queen, or when he spoke to her in play it was always Gwen. When he spoke it now, it seemed to her she had never heard a sweeter sound. 'Gwenhwyfar. Why do you weep?'Now she must lie, and lie well, because, she could not in honor tell him the truth. She said, 'Because-' and stopped, and then, in a choking voice, she said, 'because I do not know how I shall live if you go away.”

“I don't know. I never heard anything about her again after I landed her man," she said, peering back at me. "She was drowned in my wake. You better hope you can swim if you go up against me." This bitch was lucky I was letting her leave in one piece. "Like a damn fish.”

“He took her by the shoulders and pulled her closer to him, his fingers knotting in the fabric of her dress. Even more than in the attic, she felt caught in the eddy of a powerful wave that threatened to pull her over and under, to crush and break her, to wear her down to softness as the sea might wear down a piece of glass.”

“Why did you refuse to marry me then?” he demanded.She should be quiet; she should just stay mute. But she was angry and hurt. Only moments before he’d been saying such lovely things; now he was being horrible. “Why can’t you help yourself?” she countered, shouting back.“What?”“Why are you compelled to come after me?” she demanded, setting her hands on her hips.For a moment, he just stared at her as if she was daft.“Because I love you,” he finally said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.“What?” She’d waited to hear him say those words for what seemed like an eternity, and now he’d said them just as casually and unconcernedly as he might have said, “I like that dress” or “Spot is a good name for a dog.”“Because I love you,” he repeated. “Why else would I?”“I don’t know. Because you’re mad?” she suggested. How dare he say he loved her here, in such a manner, with so little fanfare?He was watching her carefully. “You seem upset.”“Oh. Do I?” she asked sweetly. Behind her, the horse shifted uneasily. Smart horse. “Perhaps it’s because I do not believe you.”