M aceded to that with a small snort, and a rueful glance down at the rose-spattered clothing she'd been stuffed into. "Heaven only knows what caste would have been assigned floral print, of course."

But, at last growing weary of philosophy, however pleasant a cover, she allowed her side of the conversation to taper away into a look past Sam and out the window, eyes narrowed in an attept at analysis of the trees and the hills and the odd bird.

"I don't suppose you have any botany to go with your philosophy courses, young Sam."