He looked at her, and the clarity of his dark eyes struck her heart with a sensation of a wound touched.

They laughed much harder than the memory was funny because it felt good to laugh.

No one had ever called her wild before. She wanted to be wild now, for him. Wild seemed more enticing then a bowl of berries.

Her eyes were distant, and she seemed to be listening to that voice that first told her the story, a mother, sister, or aunt. Then her voice, like her singing, cut through the crickets and crackling fire.

You, what are you? The brat of lucky parents who were related to a childless king. There is no such thing as royal blood. I believe we are what we make ourselves, and as such, you, Crown Princess, are nothing.

Razo was sorely tempted to assert that all was true and he'd lost his horns and tail in a tragic childhood accident

... and with my last thought I felt some real sympathy for those poor chickens.