The Syrian Prince
As the first light of the dawn streamed over the dunes, they found the Viscountess de Bure stretching out in languid delight over her bed of newly turned straw. The ponygirl treasured these moments in the early morning before the stablehands were awake and about. She hardly felt the pinpricks of pain from the scratchy hay; like the feel of the golden collar around her throat, the sensation had become unremarkable through long habit. The Viscountess scarcely remembered a time when she...