“All right,” Rory said.

  With the noticeably strong magnetic field of energy around her, the white-haired Marguerite reminded Daralyn of the fairy queen Galadriel, one of the characters in the Lord of the Rings movies. Les had shown her the trilogy in small portions, until they made it through them all. When she told Daralyn the movies were based on books, Daralyn had checked the series out from the library. It had been her first experience in realizing how movies and books could tell stories in different but sometimes equally interesting ways. Different mediums. That’s how Helga, the town librarian, had described it.

  Daralyn was anxious that Marguerite would want to talk, but as they strolled in the gardens, away from the others, Marguerite didn’t say anything. She stayed side by side with Daralyn, though, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. The lack of conversation helped Daralyn relax some.

  It also allowed her to give this section of the gardens her undivided attention. Like all the landscaping, it looked untamed without being unruly, the plantings layered and complementing one another. Their gardener knew what he or she was doing. Cell phones weren’t allowed, for obvious reasons, but Daralyn wished she could photograph the plantings to show Elaine. But she’d remember and describe them to her. She was already fashioning a new display area in her head for their landscape inventory at the store, as well as developing a couple ideas for her own small yard.

  Sculptures and small statuary tucked here and there added interest to the design. A bench and a stump provided spots for contemplation. That sense of sanctuary expanded when they reached what Daralyn thought might be their destination. This section was influenced by Japanese gardening styles, with a mix of small conifers and low growing flowering mosses. The mosses covered the large angular rocks, which had cool green border plants like variegated hosta tucked in between them. The rich burgundy color of several cut leaf Japanese maples was highlighted by artfully placed landscape lights, and the shade-loving plants of the glade were protected by the arms of two large live oaks.

  Water plants floated in a koi pond. A trio of small black horses was leaping out of the depths of the small waterfall pouring into the pond, keeping the water moving.

  “Shall we sit?”

  Marguerite sank down on the wall built around the pond. Daralyn took a mirrored pose, the two of them sideways on the wall so they could watch the koi circle. It put her almost knee to knee with Marguerite. The corset’s hold didn’t let her sit as casually as she normally would, but she liked the way it felt, a restraint much like the ropes Rory put on her. A reminder of his presence, like the bracelet.

  “We have a couple koi ponds on the property. The other one has a statue of Aphrodite, but this one was designed specifically for the horse sculpture.”

  “I saw the Aphrodite one earlier.” It had been in the more public part of the gardens. “It’s amazing. But this…this is so quiet.”

  “Yes.” They sat for some minutes in that same companionable silence. When Marguerite trailed her fingers in the water, playing with the koi, Daralyn did the same, smiling at the way the fish nibbled at her fingertips. It was peaceful here, and the feeling that emanated from Marguerite was part of that ease.

  Daralyn hadn’t felt comfortable at the table with her. Not until Marguerite met her gaze that last time, and then something Daralyn couldn’t describe had changed. Well, maybe she could. A door had opened in Marguerite’s mind and Daralyn stepped in, at the exact moment that Marguerite did the same with her. So they didn’t have to say anything. They were already inside, and knew what things looked like.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Marguerite mused. “To have a space where nothing is needed or expected. You can simply be, because you’re all you need to be in this moment.”

  Managing the expectations, the intentions of others, could be overwhelming. Sometimes it seemed it was all Daralyn could do, just to keep an eye on the precarious balance of what was inside her. A tree, a garden, a square of blue—when she looked at them, those were things that could be managed, that could give without taking.

  The square of blue was in Dr. Taylor’s office, a painting mounted directly behind her desk. A blurry-edged shape against a washed-out field of watercolor blues and greens.

  Marguerite’s gaze lifted and took in their surroundings. “Gardeners seem to understand the importance of creating quiet spaces, for meditation, for simply being. The first time I saw the grounds here, I thought how overwhelming it must have been, to design and create it. But Robert, our gardener, told me a garden starts with one feeling. A plant put next to another plant that feels right there. He said it can start with a group of pots on an apartment balcony.”

  Daralyn’s growing group of flowers and plants around her home had started with a couple pots Elaine had given her. Now three sides of the house had blooms, ornamental grasses and small shrubs.

  “I’ve found that, too,” she said.

  Marguerite’s gaze slid over hers, returned to the waterfall, and the trio of horses. “A horse is a thousand pounds of muscle, teeth and hooves,” she said, “and yet their legs are absurdly fragile. I visited an equine rescue earlier this year. Those who have histories of severe abuse or neglect have a wariness in their eyes. But what breaks the heart is the hope, like a fluttering candle flame next to an open window.”

  Marguerite lifted her wet hand out of the water and extended it. Scar tissue formed a starburst across the top, from wrist to knuckles.

  “That was done to me when I was a child. Along with many other things.” The gaze that met Daralyn’s was straightforward, no pity for herself, yet not casual nor dismissive either.

  Before uneasiness could steal into Daralyn’s lower belly, Marguerite made a calming gesture. When she continued to speak, her words seemed to move at the same cadence as the breeze that rustled the grasses around them and the live oak leaves above. It reminded Daralyn of the way it felt to read a book. The words offered for her own thoughts, no response required.

  “For so many years, I existed,” Marguerite said. “Succeeded because I needed to move forward. At first, that’s a victory, an accomplishment so momentous the effort can’t be measured. But if it remains the goal too long, it loses its value. I was at that point when I met Tyler.”

  Her pale blue eyes moved to Daralyn’s, then went back to studying the world around them. When she’d first arrived at the table, Marguerite had shown the Mistress side of herself, her ability to pierce a person to the soul with her gaze. But now Daralyn wondered if there’d been a time when Marguerite hadn’t looked at anyone directly, either.

  Marguerite rose, gesturing, and Daralyn followed her around a sumptuous grove of fatsia. Here she found another sequestered space, still in the Japanese garden style, including a rock garden with a tiny bamboo rake and a wisteria arbor. Just beyond it was an open-air structure made of golden wood with a hipped roof. A tea house. She’d seen them in the garden supply magazines they received from their vendors.

  Then Marguerite pivoted away from that section, drawing Daralyn’s attention to a sculpture that, once turned in the right direction, was impossible to miss.

  It was a bronze angel. Nearly life-sized and male, with half spread wings, every feather defined. An expression of warrior alertness was captured on his etched face, but there was also a light smile on his lips that spoke of generosity and a depth of spirit. His eyes seemed to penetrate the watcher, call to them.

  Dark green ferns clustered around his pedestal, and another, smaller waterfall murmured near the statue. Marguerite drew her to a nearby bench, both of them sinking down to face the angel.

  “Tyler had this commissioned to honor my brother,” Marguerite said. “He died when we were very young. I was with him when it happened.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  “At the time, they said I survived, but it wasn’t true. We can’t say that any part of us survives what happens to us. Not until we know how to live.” Marguerite’s eyes met Daralyn’s. “How is that going for you, Daralyn?”

  What do you want for dinner? Do you want to do this…or that? Even such casual questions could spawn anxiety. But this targeted question, aimed right at her center, stilled her. She was locked into a moment with Marguerite that reminded her of those times with Rory when everything fell away but what mattered.

  “Some days better than others,” she said honestly. “This is one of them.”

  “Good.” Marguerite smiled. It wasn’t an open or easy gesture. “For most people,” she said, “life is about coming out of the womb into a world of possibilities. For others, it’s about crawling out of a grave and discovering we are no longer dead.”

  A fierce look crossed her face. “They couldn’t kill us. We are alive, and have so much living to do. But they will always be calling, because their darkness is something we can’t leave behind. At times, it seems those shadows won’t be satisfied until we’re pulled back into those memories, those feelings, and trapped there forever. Each morning, we start the fight anew, and wonder when our strength to resist will falter.”

  Things rose up, wanted to choke her, but Marguerite’s other arm slid around her, held her shoulders, steadied her.

  “It’s all right,” Marguerite said, and now Daralyn heard the Domme side surface. “You’re all right. Breathe. Relax. Don’t fight it. Let it wash through.”

  Marguerite’s reassurance, the strength in her hold, weren’t Rory, but the method and tone were so much like him she could reach for him through Marguerite, hold onto that mental lifeline, steady herself, though the breathing part took extra effort with the corset. She didn’t want the panic attack to require its removal, so she summoned the force of will to even her breathing and stave off any lightheadedness.

  Fortunately, Marguerite didn’t rush the process. They sat that way for a while, Marguerite demonstrating no urgency at all. Not until Daralyn herself had calmed did Marguerite eventually ease back. “All right?”

  Daralyn nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Marguerite pursed her lips. “Do you think about power, Daralyn? Having it?”

  Daralyn frowned at the unexpected question. “I…I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Rory loves you, and that gives you so much power. Not just over him, but over the world. Your world.” Marguerite gave her a steady look. “He doesn't want anything to hurt you or cause you pain. Including him. But you have your own power to survive that. You proved it, didn’t you? And now you’re learning you not only had the power to survive, but to thrive. Live. Love.”

  Marguerite’s white hair blew forward over her shoulder. The lustrous strands were such an unusual color. Daralyn lifted a hand toward it before she thought. She froze, her usual apprehension surging forth to counter the impulsive gesture.

  “It’s fine,” Marguerite said. “I would like it if you touched my hair, Daralyn.”

  Daralyn stroked the thick silk of it with tentative fingers. Marguerite returned the favor, brushing Daralyn’s hair from her brow. The gesture was neither sexual nor sisterly. It had a hint of something maternal to it, but not motherly. More on the warrior-teacher side of things.

  “It wasn’t until Tyler found a way to break through that I knew why I’d survived,” Marguerite continued. “I’d lived before I met him, found ways to thrive, but I couldn’t find my way back to what love was truly supposed to be until I met him.”

  Daralyn thought about Rory. Since that first kiss, she’d struggled with so many things between them. Those things hadn’t been a straight line. Instead they were more like a spiral, touching past, present and future at the same time as they rotated around what the two of them were building between them. She suspected that was close to what Marguerite was talking about.

  “At some point, you’ll have to come face to face with that power to love, figure out how to take it inside you,” Marguerite said. “Only you can do that. No one can force it on you, and no one who loves you will. But they will hope for it for you. Because they’re standing on the other side of that choice, already knowing what we have to teach ourselves, because it was never taught to us the way it was to them.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That finding the bravery to love fully, with every cell of who we are, is the only answer to all of it. Don’t be afraid of the power that comes from it, Daralyn. Whether it’s used to rule or serve, it’s a gift we should never turn down.”

  Daralyn turned Marguerite’s hair over her fingers, watching it slide free, drift back to her shoulder. Marguerite offered that serious smile.

  “Love isn’t something you expect, let alone that it will have the strength to stand at your back. Even more than that, once you take it inside you, it will become the weapon, the home, the permanent place of stillness that transcends everything.”

  Marguerite gestured around them. “And that’s when you make the true leap. You’ll know you can rest in his arms, simply be, and it's all right. You are finally safe. No question, no act of yours or his, or anyone else’s, will change your awareness of it. Love has made sure you can never be imprisoned in that place of fear again. You have changed forever. Broken free.”

  Her eyes came back to Daralyn’s. “It’s the hardest thing we have to learn. But we have the strength. It just takes time.”

  The mask dropped fully, and now Daralyn saw more than just a grown woman like herself. They were two young girls who would never forget what it was to live in unimaginable darkness, would never lose their wonder that somehow they'd stumbled through the darkness to the light.

  This time she didn’t have to ask. She reached out, closed her hand over Marguerite's, over the starburst scar. Marguerite's hand turned, and they gripped, held fast. Their gazes turned to the angel, to the gardens around him. “It's enough," Marguerite said softly. "Every moment like this is enough."

  Daralyn’s mind was so full of those words, all the possibilities of them, she had nothing else to say. But it wasn’t needed. The energy changed, became easier, lighter, as did the look Marguerite turned her way. “Come see my tea house?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, certainly.”

  As they rose, Daralyn’s gaze fell on the necklace on Marguerite’s throat. Marguerite saw it, and closed her fingers over the heart bracelet on Daralyn’s arm. “Our Masters find ways to tell us they are with us, even when they aren’t. That’s a weapon, too.” A feline smile crossed her lips. “A weapon they will wield on our behalf, even if it’s to tear down the walls we build against them.”

  “Did you do that with Tyler?” Daralyn ventured.

  Marguerite’s gaze sparkled with unexpected humor. “Over and over again.”

  Daralyn thought of the handsome, silver-haired man with a tiger’s eyes. He looked at Marguerite with a surfeit of emotions that all amounted to one thing.

  She belonged to him, and he to her.

  “But he didn’t give up.”

  “No, he didn’t. Thank the Goddess. I didn’t make it easy. The greatest of understatements. But Tyler has told me in so many ways, mostly without words”—her gaze swept the tea house, the rock garden, angel and waterfall—“that none of that matters. Nothing could change how he felt about me. Everything I did only made his feelings grow stronger. Our bond was something that existed no matter what forces came against it. Like the peace of this glade.”

  Her attention came back to Daralyn. “Having that knowledge inside me…it’s everything. It doesn’t solve all problems; it simply tells me I will never face them alone. Not ever again.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Going to Florida had changed things, in a lot of good ways. It wasn’t just one thing, but the way they all mixed together. Traveling together. Spending time at the cabin relaxing, reading, watching Rory fish. The amazing things they’d seen and done together at Tyler’s party. Visiting Arnold Simms, the fixture vendor, on their last day in Florida, looking through his stock together, deciding what items would be most appealing to their customer base.

  Looking back over the past few weeks, Daralyn thought she might be the most content she’d ever been in her life. Every day she could look forward to more. Learning more at school, helping more at the store, doing more in her garden, decorating her house.

  Best of all was how much of that involved being with Rory. Their days were spent working side by side in the store, and their evenings…well, just thinking about some of the things they did could stop her in the middle of whatever she was doing to get lost in the memories. And the result? She’d emerge flushed and hungry for more.

  One night they’d gone out for pizza with Marty and Amanda. Daralyn had the new experience of hanging out with friends…for fun. When Amanda and Marty had visited the juke box to choose some music, she’d tried Rory’s beer, made a face.

  “I didn’t think you liked alcohol,” he said.

  “I just wanted to put my lips on the glass where yours have been.”

  Around him, her fear of saying things that didn’t really fit into normal conversation had all but disappeared. Probably because of reactions like what had happened next. He’d moved his arm from the back of her chair, used the wrap of it to draw her up close and put his mouth on hers. His breath had been fragrant with the hops and warm with desire. When he'd broken the kiss, he’d cocked his brow and given her a smile that had curled her toes. “Always best to go to the source,” he advised.

  His seemingly limitless desire to give her pleasure left her only one choice—to embrace it. He drove her to the edge of ecstasy and beyond as often as possible. He could also be very demanding about the when and where of it, keeping her body humming, anticipating.

  Her favorite way so far was when he had her straddle him in his chair, his hands on her hips, him inside her. His gaze would lock upon her like nothing else in the whole world was more important than watching the climax take her over. When he pulled raw screams of crazed pleasure from her, his avid brown gaze would devour her every reaction. Those responses only goaded him to do more things to tear helpless cries from her. When she finally came down, he would band both arms around her, suckle her breasts, sending hard aftershocks through her as strong as the climax itself.