"What men want most," Dante grumbles to Anne one morning, "is what they can't have: the moon sliced up on their dinner-plate, the sound of contentment, the apple that hangs highest on the branch-top."

"And being a sorcerer," she replies, "might that mean there is nothing one desires?"

She sounds wistful--the follies of youth, he huffs, despite being not very many years her senior--and almost he wishes he could promise her it were so; but he reminds himself of the curve of her cheek, the feel of her hair, and he knows he cannot.