So don't think about it, Yarrow. Don't think about what's gone. Don't think about it.
That became her inner chant, the words she said to herself to keep her sanity, as she and Jules rode on towards Atton.
She glanced at the medic, his horse keeping pace with hers, the fading light casting shadows on his face. His loss was as great as hers. Perhaps greater. He had a fiancé waiting for him in Atherton, a woman he'd likely never see again. She had a man who'd left her for her sister, a man who, even if she were not exiled, could never be touched by her again. She probably wouldn't even be able to look at him with the longing she felt in her heart, lest her sister become jealous. Perhaps exile was preferable to that living Tyvian.
Instinctively her hand drifted to her pocket; pressing, she
