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the craft of such an individual?
    The unique puzzle of her pricked his curiosity.
    “Wonderful play, I like this role much better than the last. You were fabulous,” a woman gushed and he turned with a practiced smile that became sincere when he took Signet D’Marigold’s offered hand. She belonged to a Family who had supported the arts for generations and she still glowed with love for her HeartMate whom she’d wed in the spring.
    “Thank you,” Raz said. He kissed her cheek, not having to bend much. She was tall and willowy, about the same height as the unknown woman in red. He glanced that way. She remained by herself.
    Signet turned to follow his gaze. “Who are you . . . oh, very interesting person. Do I know her?” Signet’s eyes unfocused and Raz watched fascinated, knowing she drew on her Flair to see the psi power of the woman in red.
    Signet’s husband, Cratag T’Marigold, slipped an arm around her waist and Raz smiled at the big man. It amused Raz that the warrior eyed him with suspicion. As if Raz had pursued Signet instead of just acting god to her goddess in a couple of nonintimate rituals. After reflexively scanning the room once more, the man met Raz’s eyes and said, “Saw your play last night. Good job.”
    “Thank you.”
    “But I could teach you a better punch—showier—to take the villain down. Better theater.”
    “Really?” Raz was hooked and they discussed it.
    Signet smiled at them, then took a glass of something pink and frothy from a passing waiter. Raz watched as she crossed to the woman, tilted her head, and spoke.
    The woman narrowed her eyes, then a smile bloomed on her face, showing dimples in each cheek that softened her. She responded to Signet, her stiffness relaxing, becoming as animated as Signet.
    “Huh,” Cratag T’Marigold said. “I think I know her, too. And not from here in Druida.”
    That both satisfied Raz’s ego that he’d guessed correctly about the woman and increased his curiosity. “Who—” But Cratag was moving off. If Raz didn’t want to appear like he’d been deserted by his friends, he needed to catch up with the man, which he did, amused.
    “It’s so good to see you again and know you’re doing well,” Signet said. She turned to them as Raz and Cratag stopped. Cratag slipped his arm around Signet once more. “Let me introduce you to—” Signet started.
    “Del Elecampane.” Cratag stuck out his hand. “Long time since we met on the trail. Don’t know that I ever thanked you for helping me get to a Healer after that slashtip incident.”
    The woman took Cratag’s hand, squeezed, then dropped it and shrugged attractively toned shoulders. “No thanks necessary. You’d’ve made it on your own. I just helped.”
    Cratag ran a finger along a white scar on his cheek. “Signet, Del tended my wounds. My scars would have been worse without her.”
    The man’s scars were bad enough.
    “Scars aren’t important,” Signet said.
    Scars like that would ruin Raz’s career.
    “No, scars aren’t important,” Del agreed.
    Signet beamed at her.
    “Appearances count less than most folk think,” Cratag said.
    Well, Raz was certainly in the minority in this foursome.
    Signet met his eyes, lifted her brows. “Raz, a good actor can have many appearances, yes? One of your skills is to change characters or nuances of character by a slight change in appearance?”
    That he could agree with. “Of course.”
    Del smiled at him, flashing those dimples again. She offered her hand. “Helena D’Elecampane—Del.”
    “Cerasus Cherry—Raz.” He took her hand and a sweet surge of lust went through his fingers directly to his groin. With a deep breath he caught her scent, wild lavender. Her hand was not a soft, city hand. She had calluses and her grip was firm. He swallowed.
    “I admire your work,” she said. “You were wonderful in the play last night.”
    She meant it, was completely sincere. This was not a woman who would be indirect or lie.