Livia allowed herself to choose. At first, she selected only one book, then another, cautious even in pleasure. But the longer she moved through the shelves, the harder restraint became. A volume of Petrarch. A French grammar. A book of Italian verse. A collection of histories.
By the time she finished, a pile waited on the table. Left to her own greed, she might have chosen more.
She returned to Henry. He had not moved. Livia lowered herself to her knees beside him. The robe had slipped slightly from his shoulder, revealing warm skin and the slow rise and fall of his breathing. She remembered sleeping beside him once, the softness after heat. She pushed the memory away.
"Your Majesty," she whispered.
Henry stirred but did not wake.
She hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your Majesty?"
