The warmth of Leon's palm still lingered at her fingertips. The Trene market square before dawn was utterly silent. A thin layer of white frost covered the stone pavement, and each step of Alicia's leather shoes made a faint sound. The eastern sky was beginning to pale, just barely. The servants of the lord's household had spent the night setting up the platform for the noon public judgment, and this morning the two of them had come to do a final check. Alicia held a bundle of documents against her chest as she confirmed the height and orientation of the platform. (That warmth hasn't faded since that night.) Her fingertips. The sensation of a warm, broad palm overlapping hers. The memory of Leon's right hand, offered in the late-night office, remained vivid even in the cold morning air. The way his voice had shifted lower when he changed the subject to work. The way his ears had turned red all the way to the tips. *This is hopeless*, she thought. *And what am I supposed to do abou