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In my previous life, there was a night when my husband lit a candle himself. "My love, you have been so weary. This will calm your spirit," he whispered, ever so tenderly. I trusted him. The next day, at his grandfather's birthday celebration, I lost all dignity. Before the entire court of nobles and officials, I tore off my garments and threw myself at a guard. My family was disgraced. Our titles were stripped. As they forced me into the ducking stool, I saw him standing among the crowd, his fingers laced with those of his widowed sister-in-law. The candle had been tainted with a mind-altering drug. This trap was laid from the day she entered our household. Then, I awoke. Time had coiled back upon itself to the moment before the flame touched the wick. Smiling, I carried the candle to their own bedchamber. When the feast day arrived, the spectacle unfolded once more. But this time, it was their turn to dance. This time, I cared only for power. Love was of no use to me.