Oh, she had led him on beautifully, teasing him with imports of doom, when she meant to make a joke! The more Alasdair thought about it, the harder he laughed.
And ’twas so good to feel laughter rippling through him again that he did not want to stop. An errant tear trickled from the corner of his eye.
But the sorceress stared at him. “Alasdair, you don’t understand.” Her words were emphatic. “My name is Morgan Lafayette. I’m a book illustrator. I’m not a dark queen, or even an enchantress.”
The intensity of her manner captured Alasdair’s attention more securely than anything else could have done. His eyes narrowed in consideration and his laughter came to an abrupt halt.
Why did she deny her own identity?
Why would a sorceress want him to believe she was not her powerful self? There
