*Tristan*

 Leaving my carriage near the dressmaker’s, I stride with purpose down the street. I need a sweet, a nice, hard, sugary sweet. I can’t recall the last time I had such a craving. I want something to make me feel good instead of like a rotten bastard.

 Whatever had overcome me to pressure the dressmaker as he had? It was Eve, dammit all. The look of mortification and a wish for death that had crossed her face when she realized that an inconsequential shop owner had determined her purpose in my life … and disapproved of it. Who is this woman to disapprove of anything I do?

 I am...