BYDIANAGABALDON

(inchronologicalorder)

OutlanderDragonflyinAmber

VoyagerDrumsofAutumnTheOutlandish

Companion(nonfiction)TheFieryCross

ABreathofSnowandAshes

AnEchointheBone

(inchronologicalorder)

LordJohnandtheHellfireClub(novella)LordJohnandthePrivateMatter

LordJohnandtheSuccubus(novella)LordJohnandtheBrotherhoodofthe

BladeLordJohnandthe

HauntedSoldier(novella)

TheCustomoftheArmy(novella)

LordJohnandtheHandofDevils(collected

novellas)ALeafontheWindofAllHallows(novella)APlagueofZombies

(novella)TheScottishPrisoner

The Space Between is a work offiction. Names, characters, places, andincidents either are the product of theauthor’s imagination or are usedfictitiously. Any resemblance to actualpersons, living or dead, events, orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.2014DelleBookEditionCopyright©2013byDianaGabaldonAllrightsreserved.Published in theUnitedStatesbyDell,animprintofRandomHouse,adivisionof Random House LLC, A PenguinRandomHouseCompany,NewYork.Dell is a registered trademark ofRandomHouseLLC,andthecolophonisatrademarkofRandomHouseLLC.ThisnovellawasoriginallypublishedinThe Mad Scientist’s Guide to World

Domination:OriginalShortFictionfortheModernEvilGenius,editedbyJohnJoseph Adams, published by TorBooks, a division of Macmillan, in2013.eBookISBN:978-0-553-39211-1Coverdesign:MariettaAnastassatosCoverimage:Shutterstockwww.bantamdell.com

v3.1

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Paris,March1778Paris

AbouttheAuthorExcerptfromWritteninMyOwnHeart’sBlood

Paris,March1778He still didn’t knowwhy

the frog hadn’t killed him.Paul Rakoczy, Comte St.Germain, picked up the vial,pulled the cork, and sniffedcautiously, for the third time,but then recorked it, stilldissatisfied. Maybe. Maybenot. The scent of the dark-gray powder in the vial heldthe ghost of somethingfamiliar—but it had been

thirtyyears.He sat for a moment,

frowning at the array of jars,bottles, flasks, and pelicansonhisworkbench.Itwaslateafternoon, and the earlyspring sun of Paris was likehoney, warm and sticky onhis face, but glowing in therounded globes of glass,throwing pools of red andbrownandgreenonthewoodfrom the liquids containedtherein. The only discordant

note in this peacefulsymphony of light was thebody of a large rat, lying onits back in themiddle of theworkbench, a pocket watchopenbesideit.

Thecomteputtwofingersdelicately on the rat’s chestandwaitedpatiently.Itdidn’ttakesolongthistime;hewasused to the coldness as hismind felt its way into thebody. Nothing. No hint oflight in his mind’s eye, no

warm red of a pulsing heart.Heglancedatthewatch:halfanhour.

Hetookhisfingersaway,shakinghishead.

“Mélisande, you evilbitch,” he murmured, notwithout affection. “Youdidn’t think I’d try anythingyou sent me on myself, didyou?”

Still … he himself hadstayed dead a great whilelongerthanhalfanhourwhen

the frog had given him thedragon’s blood. It had beenearly evening when he wentinto Louis’s Star Chamberthirty years before, heartbeatingwithexcitementatthecomingconfrontation—aduelof wizards, with a king’sfavor as the stakes—and onehe’d thought he’d win. Heremembered thepurityof thesky, the beauty of the starsjust visible, Venus bright onthehorizon, and the joyof it

in his blood. Everythingalwayshadagreaterintensitywhen you knew life couldcease within the next fewminutes.

And an hour later hethought his life had ceased,the cup falling from hisnumbed hand, the coldnessrushing through his limbswithamazing speed, freezingthewords “I’ve lost,” an icycoreofdisbeliefinthecenterof his mind. He hadn’t been

looking at the frog; the lastthing he had seen throughdarkening eyes was thewoman—La Dame Blanche—herfaceoverthecupshe’dgivenhimappalledandwhiteasbone.Butwhatherecalled,and recalled again now,withthe same sense ofastonishmentandavidity,wasthegreatflareofblue,intenseas the color of the eveningsky beyond Venus, that hadburst from her head and

shouldersashedied.He didn’t recall any

feeling of regret or fear, justastonishment. This wasnothing, however, to theastonishment he’d felt whenheregainedhissenses,nakedonastoneslab ina revoltingsubterraneanchambernext toa drowned corpse. Luckily,therehadbeennoonealiveinthatdisgustinggrotto, andhehad made his way—reelingandhalf blind, clothed in the

drowned man’s wet andstinking shirt—out into adawnmorebeautifulthananytwilight could ever be. So—ten to twelve hours from themoment of apparent death torevival.

Heglancedattherat,thenputoutafingerandliftedoneof the small, neat paws.Nearly twelve hours. Limp;the rigor had already passed.It was warm up here at thetop of the house. Then he

turned to thecounter that ranalong the far wall of thelaboratory, where a line ofrats lay, possibly insensible,probably dead. He walkedslowly along the line,prodding each body. Limp,limp, stiff. Stiff. Stiff. Alldead, without doubt. Eachhad had a smaller dose thanthe last, but all had died—though he couldn’t yet bepositiveaboutthelatest.Waitabitmore,then,tobesure.

He needed to know.Because the Court ofMiracles was talking. Andtheysaidthefrogwasback.

The EnglishChannel

Theydidsaythatredhairwas a sign of the devil. Joaneyed her escort’s fiery locksconsideringly. The wind ondeck was fierce enough tomake her eyes water, and itjerked bits of Michael

Murray’s hair out of itsbinding so they did danceroundhishead like flames, abit.Youmightexpecthisfacetobeuglyassinifhewasoneof the devil’s, though, and itwasn’t.

Luckyforhim,he lookedlike his mother in the face,she thought critically. Hisyounger brother, Ian, wasn’tsofortunate,andthatwithouttheheathentattoos.Michael’swasafairlypleasantface,for

all it was blotched withwindburn and the lingeringmarks of sorrow, and nowonder, him having just losthis father, and his wife deadin France no more than amonthbeforethat.

But she wasn’t bravingthis gale in order to watchMichael Murray, even if hemightburst into tearsor turnintoAuldHornyon the spot.She touched her crucifix forreassurance, just in case. It

had been blessed by thepriest, and her mother’dcarried it all the way to St.Ninian’sSpringanddippeditin thewater there, to ask thesaint’sprotection.Anditwashermothershewantedtosee,aslongasevershecould.

She pulled her kerchiefoff and waved it, keeping atightgrip lest thewindmakeoff with it. Her mother wasgrowingsmalleron thequay,waving madly too, Joey

behindherwithhisarmroundher waist to keep her fromfallingintothewater.

Joansnortedabitatsightofhernewstepfatherbutthenthought better and touchedthecrucifixagain,mutteringaquick Act of Contrition inpenance.Afterall, itwassheherself who’d made thatmarriagehappen, and a goodthing, too. If not, she’d stillbe stuck to home atBalriggan, not on herway at

lasttobeaBrideofChristinFrance.

A nudge at her elbowmadeherglanceaside,toseeMichael offering her ahandkerchief.Well,so.Ifhereyes were streaming—aye,and her nose—it was nowonder,thewindsofierceasitwas. She took the scrap ofcloth with a curt nod ofthanks, scrubbed briefly ather cheeks, and waved herkerchiefharder.

None of his family hadcome to seeMichael off, noteven his twin sister, Janet.But theywere taken upwithall there was to do in thewake of Old Ian Murray’sdeath, and no wonder. Noneed to see Michael to theship,either—MichaelMurraywasawinemerchantinParis,and a wonderfully well-traveled gentleman. She tooksome comfort from theknowledgethatheknewwhat

todoandwheretogoandhadsaid he would see her safelydelivered to the Convent ofAngels, because the thoughtof making her way throughParisaloneandthestreetsfullofpeopleallspeakingFrench—though she knew Frenchquite well, of course. She’dbeen studying it all thewinter,andMichael’smotherhelping her—though perhapsshe had better not tell thereverend mother about the

sorts of French novels JennyMurrayhad inherbookshelf,because…

“Voulez-vous descendre,mademoiselle?”

“Eh?”Sheglancedathim,to see him gesturing towardthe hatchway that leddownstairs. She turned back,blinking—but the quay hadvanished, and her motherwithit.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.I’lljust…”Shewantedtosee

thelandsolongasshecould.It would be her last sight ofScotland, ever, and thethoughtmade her wame curlinto a small, tight ball. Shewaved a vague hand towardthe hatchway. “You go,though. I’m all right bymyself.”

Hedidn’t gobut came tostandbesideher,grippingtherail. She turned away fromhim a little, so he wouldn’tsee her weep, but on the

whole she wasn’t sorry he’dstayed.

Neither of them spoke,and the land sank slowly, asthough the sea swallowed it,and there was nothing roundthem now but the open sea,glassy gray and ripplingunder a scud of clouds. Theprospectmadeherdizzy,andshe closed her eyes,swallowing.

DearLordJesus,don’tletmebesick!

A small shuffling noisebesidehermadeheropenhereyes, to findMichaelMurrayregarding her with someconcern.

“Are ye all right, MissJoan?”Hesmiledalittle.“OrshouldIcallyeSister?”

“No,” she said, taking agrip on her nerve and herstomach and drawing herselfup.“I’mnoanunyet,amI?”

He looked her up anddown, in the frank way

Hielandmen did, and smiledmorebroadly.

“Have ye ever seen anun?”heasked.

“I have not,” she said, asstarchily as she could. “Ihavena seen God or theBlessed Virgin, either, but Ibelieveinthem,too.”

Much to her annoyance,heburstout laughing.Seeingthe annoyance, though, hestopped at once, though shecould see the urge still

trembling there behind hisassumedgravity.

“I do beg your pardon,Miss MacKimmie,” he said.“I wasna questioning theexistence of nuns. I’ve seenquite a number of thecreatureswithmyowneyes.”His lips were twitching, andsheglaredathim.

“Creatures,isit?”“A figure of speech, nay

more,Iswearit!Forgiveme,Sister—IkennotwhatIdo!”

Heheldupahand, coweringin mock terror. The urge tolaugh made her that muchmorecross,butshecontentedherself with a simple“mmphm”ofdisapproval.

Curiositygotthebetterofher, though, and after a fewmomentsspentinspectingthefoamingwakeoftheship,sheasked, not looking at him,“Whenyesawthenuns,then—whatweretheydoing?”

He’d got control of

himselfbynowandansweredherseriously.

“Well,IseetheSistersofNotre Dame, who workamongthepoorallthetimeinthe streets. They always goout by twos, ken, and bothnuns will be carrying greathuge baskets, filled withfood, I suppose—maybemedicines? They’re covered,though—the baskets—so Icanna say for sure what’s inthem. Perhaps they’re

smuggling brandy and lacedown to the docks—” Hedodged aside from herupraisedhand,laughing.

“Oh, ye’ll be a rare nun,Sister Joan! Terrordaemonum, solatiummiserorum…”

She pressed her lips tighttogether,not to laugh.Terrorof demons—the cheek ofhim!

“Not Sister Joan,” shesaid.“They’llgivemeanew

name,likely,attheconvent.”“Oh,aye?”Hewipedhair

out of his eyes, interested.“D’yegettochoosethenameyourself?”

“I don’t know,” sheadmitted.

“Well, though—whatnamewouldyepick,ifyehadthechoosing?”

“Er … well …” Shehadn’t toldanyone,but, afterall, what harm could it do?She wouldn’t see Michael

Murray again once theyreached Paris. “SisterGregory,”sheblurted.

Rather to her relief, hedidn’tlaugh.

“Oh,that’sagoodname,”he said. “After St. GregorytheGreat,isit?”

“Well … aye. Ye don’tthinkit’spresumptuous?”sheasked,alittleanxious.

“Oh, no!” he said,surprised.“Imean,howmanynunsarenamedMary?If it’s

not presumptuous to benamed after the mother o’God, how can it behighfalutin to call yourselfafter a mere pope?” Hesmiledatthat,somerrilythatshesmiledback.

“How many nuns arenamedMary?”sheasked,outofcuriosity.“It’scommon,isit?”

“Oh,aye,yesaidye’dnotseen a nun.” He’d stoppedmaking fun of her, though,

and answered seriously.“AbouthalfthenunsI’vemetseemtobecalledSisterMarySomething—ye ken, SisterMary Polycarp, Sister MaryJoseph…likethat.”

“And ye meet a greatmany nuns in the course o’your business, do ye?”Michael Murray was a winemerchant, the junior partnerof Fraser et Cie—and,judging from the cut of hisclothes,didwellenoughatit.

His mouth twitched, butheansweredseriously.

“Well, I do, really. Notevery day, I mean, but thesisters come round to myofficequiteoften—orIgo tothem. Fraser et Cie supplieswine to most o’ themonasteries and convents inParis, and some will send apairofnunstoplaceanorderor to take away somethingspecial—otherwise, wedeliver it, of course. And

even the orders who dinnatake wine themselves—andmost of the Parisian housesdo,theybein’French,aye?—need sacramental wine fortheir chapels. And thebegging orders come roundlikeclockworktoaskalms.”

“Really.” She wasfascinated: sufficiently so astoputasideher reluctance tolook ignorant. “I didnaken … I mean … so thedifferent orders do quite

different things, is that whatye’re saying? What otherkindsarethere?”

Heshotherabriefglancebut then turned back,narrowing his eyes againstthewindashethought.

“Well… there’s the sortofnun thatpraysall the time—contemplative, I thinkthey’re called. I see them inthe cathedral all hours of theday and night. There’s morethan one order of that sort,

though; one kind wears grayhabitsandpraysinthechapelof St. Joseph, and anotherwears black; ye see themmostly in the chapel of OurLadyoftheSea.”Heglancedat her, curious. “Will it bethat sort of nun that you’llbe?”

She shook her head, gladthat thewind-chafinghidherblushes.

“No,”shesaid,withsomeregret. “That’s maybe the

holiest sort of nun, but I’vespent a good bit o’ my lifebeing contemplative on themoors, and I didna like itmuch.IthinkIhavenagottherightsortofsoultodoitverrawell,eveninachapel.”

“Aye,”hesaid,andwipedback flying strands of hairfrom his face. “I ken themoors. The wind gets intoyour head after a bit.” Hehesitated for a moment.“When my uncle Jamie—

your da, I mean—ye ken hehidinacaveafterCulloden?”

“For seven years,” shesaid, a little impatient. “Aye,everyone kens that story.Why?”

Heshrugged.“Only thinking. I was no

but a wee bairn at the time,but Iwent now and thenwi’my mam, to take him foodthere.He’dbegladtoseeus,but he wouldna talk much.And it scared me to see his

eyes.”Joan felt a small shiver

pass down her back, nothingto do with the stiff breeze.She saw—suddenly saw, inher head—a thin, dirty man,thebonesstartinginhisface,crouched in the dank, frozenshadowsofthecave.

“Da?”shescoffed,tohidetheshiverthatcrawledupherarms.“Howcouldanyonebescairt of him? He’s a dear,kindman.”

Michael’s wide mouthtwitchedatthecorners.

“I suppose it woulddepend whether ye’d everseenhiminafight.But—”

“Have you?” sheinterrupted, curious. “Seenhiminafight?”

“I have, aye. BUT—” hesaid, not willing to bedistracted, “I didna mean hescared me. It was that Ithought he was haunted. Bythevoicesinthewind.”

That dried up the spit inher mouth, and she workedher tongue a little, hoping itdidn’t show. She needn’thave worried; he wasn’tlookingather.

“My own da said it wasbecauseJamiespentsomuchtimealone,thatthevoicesgotinto his head and he couldnastophearingthem.Whenhe’dfeel safe enough to come tothehouse,itwouldtakehourssometimes before he could

start to hear us again—Mamwouldna let us talk to himuntil he’d had something toeat and was warmedthrough.” He smiled, a littleruefully. “She said he wasnahuman ’til then—and,looking back, I dinna thinkshemeant that as a figure ofspeech.”

“Well,” she said, butstopped,notknowinghow togo on. She wished ferventlythat she’dknown thisearlier.

Her da and his sister werecomingontoFrancelater,butshe might not see him. Shecould maybe have talked toDa, asked him just what thevoicesinhisheadwerelike—what theysaid.Whether theywere anything like the onessheheard.

***Nearly twilight, and the

rats were still dead. Thecomte heard the bells of

NotreDame calling sept andglanced at his pocket watch.The bells were two minutesbefore their time, and hefrowned. He didn’t likesloppiness. He stood up andstretchedhimself,groaningashis spine cracked like theragged volley of a firingsquad.No doubt about it, hewas aging, and the thoughtsentachillthroughhim.

If. If he could find theway forward, then

perhaps … but you neverknew,thatwasthedevilofit.For a little while, he’dthought—hoped—thattraveling back in timestopped theprocessofaging.That initially seemed logical,like rewinding a clock. But,then again, itwasn’t logical,because he’d always goneback farther than his ownlifetime.Onlyoncehe’dtriedtogobackjustafewyears,tohisearlytwenties.Thatwasa

mistake, andhe still shiveredatthememory.

Hewenttothetallgabledwindow that looked out overtheSeine.

That particular view ofthe river had changed barelyat all in the last twohundredyears; he’d seen it at severaldifferent times. He hadn’talwaysownedthishouse,butit had stood in this streetsince 1620, and he alwaysmanaged to get in briefly, if

only to reestablish his ownsense of reality after apassage.

Onlythetreeschangedinhis view of the river, andsometimes a strange-lookingboatwould be there. But therestwasalwaysthesameandno doubt always would be:the old fishermen, catchingtheirsupperoffthelandinginstubborn silence, eachguarding his space withoutthrustelbows,theyounger

ones, barefoot and slump-shouldered with exhaustion,laying out their nets to dry,naked little boys diving offthe quay. It gave him asoothing sense of eternity,watchingtheriver.Perhapsitdidn’t matter so much if hemustonedaydie?

“Thedevil itdoesn’t,”hemurmured to himself, andglancedup at the sky.Venusshonebright.Heshouldgo.

Pausing conscientiously

to place his fingers on eachrat’sbodyandensure thatnospark of life remained, hepassed down the line, thenswept them all into a burlapbag. If he was going to theCourtofMiracles,at leasthewouldn’t arrive empty-handed.

***Joanwasstill reluctant to

go below, but the light wasfading, the wind getting up

regardless, and a particularlyspiteful gust that blew herpetticoats right up round herwaist and grabbed her arsewith a chilly hand made heryelp in a very undignifiedway.Shesmoothedherskirtshastily and made for thehatchway, followed byMichaelMurray.

Seeing him cough andchafehishandsatthebottomof the laddermadehersorry;here she’d kept him freezing

on deck, too polite to gobelow and leave her to herown devices, and her tooselfishtoseehewascold,thepoorman. Shemade a hastyknot in her handkerchief, toremind her to say an extradecade of the rosary forpenance,whenshegottoit.

Hesawhertoabenchandsaid a few words to thewoman sittingnext toher, inFrench. Obviously he wasintroducing her, she

understood that much—butwhenthewomannoddedandsaid something in reply, shecould only sit thereopenmouthed. She didn’tunderstand a word. Not aword!

Michael evidentlygrasped the situation, for hesaid something to thewoman’s husband, whichdrewherattentionawayfromJoan, and engaged them in aconversation that let Joan

sink quietly back against thewooden wall of the ship,sweating withembarrassment.

Well, she’d get into theway of it, she reassuredherself.Boundto.Shesettledherself with determination tolisten, picking out the oddword here and there in theconversation. Itwaseasier tounderstandMichael;hespokesloweranddidn’tswallowthebackhalfofeachword.

She was trying to puzzleouttheprobablespellingofaword that sounded like“pwufgweemiarniere” butsurely couldn’t be, when hereyecaughtaslightmovementfrom thebenchopposite, andthegurglingvowelscaughtinherthroat.

A man sat there, maybeclose to her own age, whichwas twenty-five. He wasgood-looking, if a bit thin inthe face, decently dressed—

andhewasgoingtodie.There was a gray shroud

over him, the same as if hewerewrapped inmist, so hisfaceshowedthroughit.She’dseen that same thing—thegrayness lying on someone’sface like fog—seen it twicebeforeandknewitatoncefordeath’s shadow. Once it hadbeen on an elderlyman, andthat might have been onlywhat anybody could see,because Angus MacWheen

was ill, but then again, andonlyafewweeksafter,she’dseen it on the second ofVhairi Fraser’s little boys,and him a rosy-faced weebairnwithdearchubbylegs.

She hadn’t wanted tobelieveit.Eitherthatshesawit orwhat itmeant. But fourdays later, the wean wascrushed in the lane by an oxthat was maddened by ahornet’ssting.She’dvomitedwhen they told her, and

couldn’teatfordaysafter,forsheer grief and terror.Because could she havestopped it if she’d said?Andwhat—dearLord,what—if ithappenedagain?

Nowithad,andherwametwisted. She leapt to her feetand blundered toward thecompanionway, cutting shortsome slowly worded speechfromtheFrenchman.

Notagain,notagain! shethought in agony.Why show

me such things? What can Ido?

She pawed frantically attheladder,climbingasfastasshe could, gasping for air,needing to be away from thedying man. How long mightit be, dear Lord, until shereached the convent, andsafety?

***Themoonwasrisingover

the Île de la Cité, glowing

throughthehazeofcloud.Heglanced at it, estimating thetime; no point in arriving atMadame Fabienne’s housebefore the girls had takentheir hair out of curlingpapersandrolledontheirredstockings. There were otherplacestogofirst,though:theobscure drinking placeswheretheprofessionalsofthecourt fortified themselves forthenightahead.Oneofthosewaswherehehad first heard

therumors—he’dseehowfarthey had spread and wouldjudge the safety of askingopenly about MaîtreRaymond.

That was one advantageto hiding in the past, ratherthan going to Hungary orSweden—life at this courttended to be short, and therewerenot somanywhokneweither his face or his history,though there would still bestories. Paris held on to its

histoires. He found the irongate—rustier than it hadbeen; it left red stains on hispalm—and pushed it openwith a creak thatwould alertwhatevernowlivedattheendofthealley.

He had to see the frog.Not meet him, perhaps—hemadeabriefsignagainstevil—butseehim.Aboveallelse,he needed to know: had theman—if he was a man—aged?

“Certainly he’s a man,”he muttered to himself,impatient. “What else couldhebe,forheaven’ssake?”

He could be somethinglike you, was the answeringthought, and a shiver ran uphis spine. Fear? Hewondered.Anticipation of anintriguing philosophicalmystery? Orpossibly…hope?

***

“What a waste of awonderful arse,” MonsieurBrechin remarked in French,watching Joan’s ascent fromthe far side of the cabin.“And,monDieu, those legs!Imagine those wrappedaroundyourback,eh?Wouldyouhaveherkeepthestripedstockingson?Iwould.”

It hadn’t occurred toMichael to imagine that, buthe was now having a hardtime dismissing the image.

He coughed into hishandkerchief to hide thereddeningofhisface.

MadameBrechingaveherhusbandasharpelbowintheribs. He grunted but seemedundisturbed by what wasevidently a normal form ofmaritalcommunication.

“Beast,”shesaid,withnoapparent heat. “Speaking soofaBrideofChrist.Youwillbe lucky if God himselfdoesn’tstrikeyoudeadwitha

lightningbolt.”“Well, she isn’t his bride

yet,” Monsieur protested.“Andwhocreatedthatarseinthe first place? Surely Godwould be flattered to hear alittle sincere appreciation ofhishandiwork.Fromonewhois, after all, a connoisseur insuch matters.” He leeredaffectionately at Madame,whosnorted.

A faint snigger from theyoung man across the cabin

indicated that Monsieur wasnot alone in his appreciation,and Madame turned areprovingglareon theyoungman.Michaelwipedhisnosecarefully, trying not to catchMonsieur’s eye. His insideswere quivering, and notentirely from eitheramusement or the shock ofinadvertent lust. He felt veryqueer.

MonsieursighedasJoan’sstriped stockings disappeared

throughthehatchway.“Christwillnotwarmher

bed,” he said, shaking hishead.

“Christwillnotfartinherbed, either,” said Madame,takingoutherknitting.

“Pardonnez-moi …”Michael said in a strangledvoice, and, clapping hishandkerchief to his mouth,madehastilyfortheladder,asthough seasickness might becatching.

Itwasn’tmaldemer thatwas surging up from hisbelly,though.Hecaughtsightof Joan, dim in the eveninglight at the rail, and turnedquickly, going to the otherside, where he gripped therail as though it were a liferaftandlettheoverwhelmingwaves of grief wash throughhim.Itwastheonlywayhe’dbeen able to manage, theselast few weeks. Hold on aslong as he could, keeping a

cheerful face, until somesmallunexpectedthing,somebitofemotionaldebris,struckhim through the heart like ahunter’s arrow, and thenhurry to findaplace tohide,curling up in mindless painuntil he could get a grip ofhimself.

This time, it wasMadame’s remark that hadcomeoutof theblue, andhegrimaced painfully, laughingin spite of the tears that

poured down his face,remembering Lillie. She’deaten eels in garlic sauce fordinner—those always madeher fart with a silentdeadlinesslikepoisonswampgas. As the ghastly miasmahadrisenuproundhim,he’dsatboltuprightinbed,onlytofindherstaringathim,alookof indignant horror on herface.

“How dare you?” she’dsaid, in a voice of offended

majesty.“Really,Michel.”“Youknowitwasn’tme!”Her mouth had dropped

open,outrageaddedtohorroranddistaste.

“Oh!” she gasped,gathering her pug-dog to herbosom. “You not only fartlike a rotting whale, youattempt to blame it on mypoor puppy! Cochon!”Whereuponshehadbegun toshake the bedsheetsdelicately,usingherfreehand

to waft the noxious odors inhis direction, addressingcensorious remarks toPlonplon, who gave Michaela sanctimonious look beforeturning to lick his mistress’sfacewithgreatenthusiasm.

“Oh, Jesus,” hewhispered, and, sinkingdown, pressed his faceagainst the rail. “Oh, God,lass,Iloveyou!”

He shook silently, headburied in his arms, aware of

sailors passing now and thenbehindhim,butnoneofthemtook notice of him in thedark.At last theagonyeasedalittle,andhedrewbreath.

Allright,then.He’dbeallrightnow,foratime.Andhethanked God, belatedly, thathe had Joan—or SisterGregory,ifsheliked—tolookafterforabit.Hedidn’tknowhow he’d manage to walkthroughthestreetsofParistohishouse,alone.Goin,greet

theservants—wouldJaredbethere?—face the sorrow ofthe household, accept theirsympathy for his father’sdeath, order a meal, sitdown … and all the timewantingjusttothrowhimselfon the floor of their emptybedroomandhowllikea lostsoul. He’d have to face it,sooner or later—but not justyet.And rightnowhe’d takethe grace of any respite thatwasoffered.

He blew his nose withresolution, tucked away hismangled handkerchief, andwent downstairs to fetch thebasket his mother had sent.He couldn’t swallow a thinghimself, but feeding Joanwould maybe keep his mindoffthingsforthatoneminutemore.

“That’showyedoit,”hisbrother Ian had told him, astheyleanttogetherontherailof their mother’s sheep pen,

the winter’s wind cold ontheir faces, waiting for theirda to find his way throughdying.“Yefindawaytolivefor that one more minute.And then another. Andanother.” Ianhad lostawife,too,andknew.

He’d wiped his face—hecouldweepbefore Ian,whilehe couldn’t with his elderbrother or the girls, certainlynot in front of his mother—andasked,“Anditgetsbetter

afteratime,isthatwhatye’retellingme?”

Hisbrotherhad lookedathim straight on, the quiet inhiseyesshowing through theoutlandishMohawktattoos.

“No,” he’d said softly.“But after a time, ye findye’reinadifferentplacethanye were. A different personthan ye were. And then yelook about and see what’sthere with ye. Ye’ll maybefind a use for yourself. That

helps.”“Aye, fine,” he said,

underhisbreath,andsquaredhis shoulders. “We’ll see,then.”

***To Rakoczy’s surprise,

there was a familiar facebehind the rough bar. IfMaximilian the Great wassurprised to see him, theSpanish dwarf gave noindication of it. The other

drinkers—a pair of jugglers,eachmissinganarm(but theopposing arm), a toothlesshag who smacked andmuttered over her mug ofarrack, and something thatlookedlikeaten-year-oldgirlbutalmostcertainlywasn’t—turned to stare at him but,seeing nothing remarkable inhis shabby clothing andburlapbag,turnedbacktothebusiness of gettingsufficiently drunk as to do

what needed to be donetonight.

He nodded to Max andpulled up one of thesplinteringkegstositon.

“What’s your pleasure,señor?”

Rakoczy narrowed hiseyes; Max had never servedanything but arrack. Buttimeshadchanged;therewasa stone bottle of somethingthatmightbebeerandadarkglass bottle with a chalk

scrawlon it, standingnext tothekegofroughbrandy.

“Arrack,please,Max,”hesaid—better the devil youknow—and was surprised tosee the dwarf’s eyes narrowinreturn.

“You knew my honoredfather, I see, señor,” thedwarfsaid,puttingthecuponthe board. “It’s some timesinceyou’vebeeninParis?”

“Pardonnez,” Rakoczysaid, accepting it and tossing

it back. If you could affordmorethanonecup,youdidn’tlet it linger on the tongue.“Yourhonored…latefather?Max?”

“Maximiliano elMaximo,” the dwarfcorrectedhimfirmly.

“To be sure.” Rakoczygestured for another drink.“AndwhomhaveIthehonortoaddress?”

The Spaniard—thoughperhaps his accent wasn’t as

strong as Max’s had been—drew himself up proudly.“Maxim Le Grand, a suservicio!”

Rakoczy saluted himgravely and threw back thesecond cup, motioning for athird and, with a gesture,invitingMaximtojoinhim.

“It has been some timesinceIwaslasthere,”hesaid.No lie there. “I wonder ifanother old acquaintancemight be still alive—Maître

Raymond, otherwise calledtheFrog?”

Therewasatinyquiverinthe air, a barely perceptibleflicker of attention, gonealmostassoonashe’dsensedit—somewherebehindhim?

“A frog,” Maxim said,meditatively pouring himselfa drink. “I don’t know anyfrogs myself, but should Ihearofone,whoshallIsayisaskingforhim?”

Shouldhegivehisname?

No,notyet.“It doesn’t matter,” he

said. “But word can be leftwithMadameFabienne.Youknow the place? In the RueAntoine?”

The dwarf’s sketchybrows rose, and his mouthturnedupatonecorner.

“Iknowit.”Doubtless he did,

Rakoczy thought. “ElMaximo” hadn’t referred toMax’s stature, and probably

“Le Grand” didn’t, either.Godhadasenseofjustice,aswellasasenseofhumor.

“Bon.”Hewipedhis lipsonhissleeveandputdownacoin that would have boughtthewholekeg.“Merci.”

Hestoodup,thehottasteof thebrandybubblingat theback of his throat, andbelched.Twomore places tovisit, maybe, before he wentto Fabienne’s. He couldn’tvisit more than that and stay

upright;hewasgettingold.“Good night.” He bowed

to the company and gingerlypushed open the crackedwoodendoor; itwashangingbyoneleatherhinge,andthatlooked ready to give way atanymoment.

“Ribbit,” someone saidvery softly, just before thedoorclosedbehindhim.

***Madeleine’s face lighted

when she saw him, and hisheart warmed. She wasn’tverybright,poorcreature,butshe was pretty and amiableand had been a whore longenough to be grateful forsmallkindnesses.

“MonsieurRakoczy!”Sheflung her arms about hisneck,nuzzlingaffectionately.

“Madeleine,mydear.”Hecupped her chin and kissedher gently on the lips,drawingherclose so thather

belly pressed against his. Heheldherlongenough,kissinghereyelids,her forehead,herears—so that she made highsqueaks of pleasure—that hecouldfeelhiswayinsideher,hold theweightofherwombin his mind, evaluate herripening.

It felt warm, the color inthe heart of a dark crimsonrose, the kind called sang dedragon.Aweekbefore,ithadfeltsolid,compactasafolded

fist; now it had begun tosoften, to hollow slightly asshe readied. Three moredays?hewondered.Four?

He let her go, and whenshepoutedprettilyathim,helaughed and raised her handto his lips, feeling the samesmall thrill he had felt whenhefirstfoundher,asthefaintblue glow rose between herfingers in response to histouch. She couldn’t see it—he’draisedtheirlinkedhands

toherfacebeforeandshehadmerely looked puzzled—butitwasthere.

“Goandfetchsomewine,mabelle,”hesaid,squeezingher hand gently. “I need totalktoMadame.”

Madame Fabienne wasnot a dwarf, but she wassmall, brown, andmottled asa toadstool—and aswatchfulas a toad, round yellow eyesseldom blinking, neverclosed.

“MonsieurleComte,”shesaid graciously, nodding himto a damask chair in hersalon. The air was scentedwith candle wax and flesh—flesh of a far better qualitythanthatonofferinthecourt.Even so, Madame had comefrom that court and kept herconnections there alive; shemade no bones about that.She didn’t blink at hisclothes,buthernostrilsflaredat him, as though she picked

up the scentof thedives andalleyshehadcomefrom.

“Good evening,Madame,”hesaid,smilingather,andliftedtheburlapbag.“IbroughtasmallpresentforLeopold.Ifhe’sawake?”

“Awakeandcranky,” shesaid, eyeing the bag withinterest. “He’s just shed hisskin—you don’t want tomakeanysuddenmoves.”

Leopold was aremarkably handsome—and

remarkablylarge—python;analbino,quite rare.Opinionofhis origins was divided; halfof Madame Fabienne’sclientele held that she hadbeen given the snake by anoble client—some said thelateKinghimself—whomshehad cured of impotence.Others said the snake hadoncebeenanobleclient,whohad refused to pay her forservices rendered. Rakoczyhadhisownopinionson that

one, but he liked Leopold,whowasordinarilytameasacat and would sometimescome when called—as longas you had something heregardedasfoodinyourhandwhenyoucalled.

“Leopold! Monsieur leComte has brought you atreat!” Fabienne reachedacrosstoanenormouswickercage and flicked the dooropened, withdrawing herhandwith sufficient speedas

to indicate just what shemeantby“cranky.”

Almost at once, a hugeyellow head poked out intothe light. Snakes hadtransparent eyelids, butRakoczy could swear thepython blinked irritably,swaying up a coil of itsmonstrousbodyforamomentbefore plunging out of thecageandswarmingacrossthefloor with amazing rapidityfor such a big creature,

tongueflickinginandoutlikeaseamstress’sneedle.

He made straight forRakoczy,jawsyawningashecame, and Rakoczy snatchedup the bag just beforeLeopoldtriedtoengulfit—orRakoczy—whole. He jerkedaside,hastilyseizedarat,andthrewit.Leopoldflungacoilof his body on top of the ratwith a thud that rattledMadame’s spoon in herteabowl, and before the

company couldblink, hehadwhipped the rat into a half-hitchknotofcoil.

“Hungry as well as ill-tempered, I see,” Rakoczyremarked, trying fornonchalance.Infact,thehairswere prickling over his neckandarms.Normally,Leopoldtook his time about feeding,and the violence of thepython’s appetite at suchclose quarters had shakenhim.

Fabienne was laughing,almost silently, her tinysloping shoulders quiveringbeneath the green Chinesesilktunicshewore.

“I thought for an instanthe’dhaveyou,”sheremarkedatlast,wipinghereyes.“Ifhehad, I shouldn’t have had tofeedhimforamonth!”

Rakoczy bared his teethin an expression that mighthavebeentakenforasmile.

“We cannot let Leopold

go hungry,” he said. “I wishto make a specialarrangement forMadeleine—itshouldkeepthewormuptohis yellow arse in rats forsometime.”

Fabienne put down herhandkerchief and regardedhimwithinterest.

“Leopold has two cocks,but I can’t say I’ve evernoticed an arse.Twentyécusa day. Plus two extra if sheneedsclothes.”

He waved an easy hand,dismissingthis.

“Ihadinmindsomethinglonger.” He explained whathe had in mind and had thesatisfaction of seeingFabienne’s face go quiteblank with stupefaction. Itdidn’t stay that way morethan a few moments; by thetimehehadfinished,shewasalready laying out her initialdemands.

When they finally came

toagreement, theyhaddrunkhalf a bottle of decent wine,and Leopold had swallowedtherat.Itmadeasmallbulgein the muscular tube of thesnake’s body but hadn’tslowed him appreciably; thecoils slithered restlessly overthepaintedcanvasfloorcloth,glowing like gold, andRakoczy saw the patterns ofhis skin like trapped cloudsbeneaththescales.

“He is beautiful, no?”

Fabienne saw his admirationandbaskeda little in it.“DidI ever tell you where I gothim?”

“Yes, more than once.And more than one story,too.”Shelookedstartled,andhe compressed his lips.He’dbeen patronizing herestablishment for no morethan a few weeks, this time.He’dknownherfifteenyearsbefore—thoughonlyacoupleof months, that time. He

hadn’t given his name then,and a madam saw so manymen that there was littlechance of her recalling him.On the other hand, he alsothought it unlikely that shetroubled to recall to whomshe’d told which story, andthisseemedtobethecase,forshe lifted one shoulder in asurprisingly graceful shrugandlaughed.

“Yes,butthisoneistrue.”“Oh, well, then.” He

smiled and, reaching into thebag, tossed Leopold anotherrat. The snake moved moreslowly this time and didn’tbother to constrict itsmotionless prey, merelyunhinging its jaw andengulfing it in a single-mindedway.

“He is an old friend,Leopold,” she said, gazingaffectionatelyat thesnake.“IbroughthimwithmefromtheWestIndies,manyyearsago.

HeisaMystère,youknow.”“I didn’t, no.” Rakoczy

drankmore wine; he had satlong enough that he wasbeginning to feel almostsober again. “And what isthat?”Hewasinterested—notso much in the snake but inFabienne’s mention of theWest Indies. He’d forgottenthatsheclaimedtohavecomefrom there, many years ago,long before he’d known herthefirsttime.

The afile powder hadbeenwaitinginhislaboratorywhen he’d come back; notellinghowmanyyearsithadsat there—the servantscouldn’t recall. Mélisande’sbrief note—Try this. It maybe what the frog used—hadnotbeendated,buttherewasabriefscrawlatthetopofthesheet, saying, Rose Hall,Jamaica.IfFabienneretainedany connections in the WestIndies,perhaps…

“Some call them loa”—her wrinkled lips pursed asshe kissed the word—“butthose are the Africans. AMystèreisaspirit,onewhoisan intermediary between theBondye and us.Bondye is lebon Dieu, of course,” sheexplained to him. “TheAfricanslavesspeakverybadFrench.Givehimanotherrat;he’sstillhungry,anditscaresthe girls if I let him hunt inthehouse.”

Another two rats and thesnake was beginning to looklike a fat string of pearls hewasshowinganinclinationtoliestill,digesting.Thetonguestill flickered, tasting the air,butlazilynow.

Rakoczy picked up thebagagain,weighing therisks—but,afterall, ifnewscamefrom the Court of Miracles,his name would soon beknowninanycase.

“I wonder, Madame, as

you know everyone inParis”—he gave her a smallbow, which she graciouslyreturned—“are youacquaintedwithacertainmanknown as Maître Raymond?Some call him the frog,” headded.

She blinked, then lookedamused.

“You’re looking for thefrog?”

“Yes. Is that funny?” Hereached into thesack, fishing

forarat.“Somewhat. I should

perhapsnottellyou,butsinceyou are soaccommodating”—sheglanced complacently at thepurse he had put beside herteabowl, a generous depositon account—“MaîtreGrenouille is looking foryou.”

He stopped dead, handclutchingafurrybody.

“What? You’ve seen

him?”She shook her head and,

sniffing distastefully at hercoldtea,rangthebellforhermaid.

“No, but I’ve heard thesamefromtwopeople.”

“Asking for me byname?”Rakoczy’s heart beatfaster.

“Monsieur le Comte St.Germain. That is you?” Sheaskedwithnomorethanmildinterest; false names were

commoninherbusiness.He nodded, mouth

suddenly too dry to speak,and pulled the rat from thesack.Itsquirmedsuddenlyinhishand, andapiercingpainin his thumb made him hurltherodentaway.

“Sacrebleu!Itbitme!”Therat,dazedby impact,

staggered drunkenly acrossthe floor toward Leopold,whosetonguebegantoflickerfaster. Fabienne, though,

utteredasoundofdisgustandthrew a silver-backedhairbrush at the rat. Startledby the clatter, the rat leaptconvulsively into the air,landed on and raced directlyover the snake’s astonishedhead, disappearing throughthedoorintothefoyer,where—bytheresultantscream—itevidently encountered themaid before making itsultimate escape into thestreet.

“Jésus Marie,” MadameFabienne said, piouslycrossing herself. “Amiraculous resurrection. TwoweeksbeforeEaster,too.”

***It was a smooth passage;

theshoreofFrancecameintosight justafterdawnthenextday. Joan saw it, a lowsmudgeof dark green on thehorizon,and felt a little thrillat the sight, in spite of her

tiredness.She hadn’t slept, though

she’d reluctantly gone belowafter nightfall, there to wrapherself in her cloak andshawl, trying not to look atthe young man with theshadow on his face. She’dlain all night, listening to thesnores and groans of herfellow passengers, prayingdoggedly and wondering indespair whether prayer wasallshecoulddo.

She often wonderedwhetheritwasbecauseofhername. She’d been proud ofher name when she wassmall;itwasaheroicname,asaint’s name, but also awarrior’sname.Hermother’dtoldher that,oftenandoften.She didn’t think her motherhadconsidered that thenamemightalsobehaunted.

Surelyitdidn’thappentoeveryone named Joan,though, did it? She wished

sheknewanotherJoantoask.Because if it did happen tothemall, theotherswouldbekeeping it quiet, just as shedid.

You didn’t go roundtelling people that you heardvoicesthatweren’tthere.Stillless that you saw things thatweren’tthere,either.Youjustdidn’t.

She’d heard of a seer, ofcourse; everyone in theHighlands had. And nearly

everyone she knew at leastclaimed tohaveseen theoddfetch or had a premonitionthat Angus MacWheen wasdead when he didn’t comehome that time last winter.The fact that AngusMacWheenwas a filthy aulddrunkard and so yellow andcrazed that it was heads ortailswhetherhe’ddieonanyparticularday,letalonewhenit got cold enough that theloch froze, didn’t come into

it.Butshe’dnevermetaseer

—therewastherub.Howdidyou get into the way of it?Did you just tell folk,“Here’s a thing … I’m aseer,” and they’d nod andsay, “Oh, aye, of course;what’s like to happen to menext Tuesday?” Moreimportant, though, how thedevil—

“Ow!” She’d bitten hertonguefiercelyaspenancefor

the inadvertent blasphemy,and clapped a hand to hermouth.

“What is it?” said aconcerned voice behind her.“Are ye hurt, MissMacKimmie? Er … SisterGregory,Imean?”

“Mm! No. No, Ijutht… bitmy tongue.” Sheturned to Michael Murray,gingerly touching the injuredtongue to the roof of hermouth.

“Well,thathappenswhenye talk to yourself.”He tookthecorkfromabottlehewascarrying and held the bottleout to her. “Here,wash yourmouthwi’that;it’llhelp.”

Shetookalargemouthfuland swirled it round; itburned the bitten place, butnotbadly,andsheswallowed,asslowlyaspossible,tomakeitlast.

“Jesus,Mary,andBride,”she breathed. “Is thatwine?”

The taste in her mouth boresome faint kinship with theliquidsheknewaswine—justas apples bore someresemblancetohorseturds.

“Aye, it is pretty good,”he said modestly. “German.Umm … have a wee nipmore?”

She didn’t argue andsipped happily, barelylistening to his talk, tellingabout the wine, what it wascalled, how they made it in

Germany, where he gotit … on and on. Finally shecame to herself enough toremember her manners,though, and reluctantlyhanded back the bottle, nowhalfempty.

“I thankye,sir,”shesaidprimly. “ ’Twas kind of ye.Yeneednawasteyourtimeinbearingmecompany,though;Ishallbewellenoughalone.”

“Aye, well … it’s noreallyforyoursake,”hesaid,

and took a reasonableswallow himself. “It’s formine.”

She blinked against thewind.Hewasflushed,butnotfrom drink or wind, shethought.

She managed a faintinterrogative“Ah…?”

“Well, what I want toask,” he blurted, and lookedaway, cheekbones burningred. “Will ye pray for me?Sister? And my—my wife.

Thereposeof—of—”“Oh!” she said,mortified

that she’d been so taken upwith her own worries as notto have seen his distress.Think you’re a seer, dearLord, ye dinna see what’sunderyourneb;you’renobuta fool, and a selfish fool atthat. She put her hand overhis where it lay on the railand squeezed tight, trying tochannelsomesenseofGod’sgoodness into his flesh. “To

besureIwill!”shesaid.“I’llrememberyeateveryMass,Iswear it!” She wonderedbrieflywhether itwasproperto swear to something likethat, but after all … “Andyour poor wife’s soul, ofcourse I will!What… er…whatwas hername? So as I’ll know whatto say when I pray for her,”she explained hurriedly,seeing his eyes narrow withpain.

“Lilliane,” he said, sosoftly that she barely heardhim over the wind. “I calledherLillie.”

“Lilliane,” she repeatedcarefully, trying to form thesyllableslikehedid.Itwasasoft, lovely name, shethought, slipping like waterover therocksat the topofaburn.You’llneverseeaburnagain, she thought with apang, but dismissed this,turning her face toward the

growingshoreofFrance.“I’llremember.”

He nodded in mutethanks, and they stood forsome little while, until sherealized that her hand wasstillrestingonhisanddrewitback with a jerk. He lookedstartled, and she blurted—because it was the thing onthe top of her mind—“Whatwasshelike?Yourwife?”

The most extraordinarymixofemotionsfloodedover

his face. She couldn’t havesaid what was uppermost—grief, laughter, or sheerbewilderment—and sherealized suddenly just howlittle of his true mind she’dseenbefore.

“She was …” Heshrugged and swallowed.“Shewasmywife,” he said,very softly. “She was mylife.”

She should knowsomething comforting to say

tohim,butshedidn’t.She’swithGod?Thatwas

the truth, she hoped, and yetclearlytothisyoungman,theonly thing that mattered wasthat his wife was not withhim.

“What happened to her?”she asked instead, baldly,only because it seemednecessarytosaysomething.

Hetookadeepbreathandappearedtoswayalittle;he’dfinished the rest of thewine,

she saw, and she took theempty bottle from his hand,tossingitoverboard.

“Theinfluenza.Theysaidit was quick. Didn’t feelquicktome—andyet,itwas,I suppose itwas. It took twodays,andGodkenswell thatIrecalleverysecondofthosedays—yet it seems that I losther between one heartbeatand the next. And I—I keeplookin’ for her there, in thatspacebetween.”

Heswallowed.“She—shewas …” The words “withchild” came so quietly thatshebarelyheardthem.

“Oh,” Joan said softly,verymoved.“Oh,achuisle.”“Heart’sblood,”itmeant,andwhat she meant was that hiswife had been that to him—dear Lord, she hoped hehadn’t thought she meant—no, he hadn’t, and the tight-wound spring in herbackbone relaxed a little,

seeing the look of gratitudeon his face. He did knowwhatshe’dmeantandseemedgladthatshe’dunderstood.

Blinking, she lookedaway—and caught sight ofthe young man with theshadow on him, leaningagainsttherailingalittlewaydown. The breath caught inherthroatatsightofhim.

Theshadowwasdarkerinthe morning light. The sunwas beginning to warm the

deck,frailwhitecloudsswamin the blue of clear Frenchskies, and yet the mist nowswirled and thickened,obscuring the young man’sface, wrapping round hisshoulderslikeashawl.

Dear Lord, tell me whatto do! Her body jerked,wanting to go to the youngman,speaktohim.Buttosaywhat?“You’re in danger, becareful”?He’dthinkshewasmad.Andifthedangerwasa

thing he couldn’t help, likewithweeRonnie and the ox,what difference might herspeakingmake?

She was dimly aware ofMichael staring at her,curious.Hesaidsomethingtoher, but shewasn’t listening,listening hard instead insideher head. Where were thedamned voices when youbloodyneededone?

But the voices werestubbornly silent, and she

turned to Michael, themuscles of her arm jumping,she’d held so tight to theship’srigging.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Iwasna listening properly. Ijust—thoughtofsomething.”

“If it’s a thing I canhelpyewith,Sister,ye’veonly toask,”hesaid,smilingfaintly.“Oh! And speak of that, Imeant to say—I said to yourmam, if she liked towrite toyou in care of Fraser et Cie,

I’d see to it that ye got theletters.” He shrugged, one-shouldered.“Idinnakenwhatthe rules are at the convent,aye? About getting lettersfromoutside.”

Joan didn’t know that,either,andhadworriedaboutit.Shewassorelievedtohearthisthatahugesmilesplitherface.

“Oh,it’sthatkindofye!”she said. “And if I could—maybewriteback…?”

Hissmilegrewwider,themarks of grief easing in hispleasure at doing her aservice.

“Anytime,” he assuredher. “I’ll see to it. Perhaps Icould—”

A ragged shriek cutthrough the air, and Joanglanced up, startled, thinkingitoneoftheseabirdsthathadcomeoutfromshoretowheelround the ship, but itwasn’t.Theyoungmanwasstanding

on the rail, one hand on therigging,andbeforeshecouldso much as draw breath, heletgoandwasgone.

ParisMichael was worried for

Joan; she sat slumped in thecoach, not bothering to lookout of the window, until afaint waft of the cool breezetouched her face. The smellwas so astonishing that itdrew her out of the shell ofshockedmisery inwhich shehadtraveledfromthedocks.

“Mother o’ God!” shesaid, clapping a hand to her

nose.“Whatisthat?”Michaelduginhispocket

andpulledoutthegrubbyragof his handkerchief, lookingdubiouslyatit.

“It’s the publiccemeteries.I’msorry,Ididnathink—”

“Moran taing.” Sheseized the damp cloth fromhimandhelditoverherface,not caring. “Do the Frenchnot bury folk in theircemeteries?” Because,

judging from the smell, athousand corpses had beenthrownoutonwetgroundandleft to rot, and the sight ofdarting, squabbling flocks ofblack corbies in the distancedid nothing to correct thisimpression.

“They do.” Michael feltexhausted—it had been aterrible morning—butstruggled to pull himselftogether. “It’s all marshlandover there, though; even

coffins buried deep—andmost of them aren’t—worktheirway through thegroundin a few months. Whenthere’saflood—andthere’saflood whenever it rains—what’sleftofthecoffinsfallsapart,and…”Heswallowed,just as pleased that he’d noteatenanybreakfast.

“There’s talk of maybemoving the bones at least,putting them in an ossuary,they call it. There are mine

workings, old ones, outsidethe city—over there”—hepointed with his chin—“andperhaps … but they havenadone anything about it yet,”he added in a rush, pinchinghisnosefasttogetabreathinthrough his mouth. It didn’tmatter whether you breathedthrough your nose or yourmouth, though; the air wasthickenoughtotaste.

She looked as ill as hefelt,ormaybeworse,herface

the color of spoilt custard.She’dvomitedwhenthecrewhad finallypulled the suicideaboard, pouring gray waterand slimedwith the seaweedthat had wrapped round hislegsanddrownedhim.Therewerestilltracesofsickdownher front, and her dark hairwas lank and damp,stragglingoutfromunderhercap.Shehadn’tsleptatall,ofcourse—neitherhadhe.

He couldn’t take her to

theconvent in thiscondition.The nuns maybe wouldn’tmind, but she would. Hestretched up and rapped ontheceilingofthecarriage.

“Monsieur?”“Auchâteau,vite!”He’dtakehertohishouse

first. It wasn’t much out ofthe way, and the conventwasn’t expecting her at anyparticular day or hour. Shecould wash, have somethingto eat, and put herself to

rights. And if it saved himfrom walking into his housealone, well, they did say akind deed carried its ownreward.

***By the time they’d

reached the Rue Trémoulins,Joan had forgotten—partly—her various reasons fordistress, in the sheerexcitement of being in Paris.She had never seen somany

people in one place at thesame time—and that wasonly the folk coming out ofMass at a parish church!Roundthecorner,apavementof fitted stones stretchedwider than the whole RiverNess, and those stonescovered fromone side to theother in barrows andwagonsand stalls, rioting with fruitand vegetables and flowersand fish and meat … She’dgivenMichaelbackhisfilthy

handkerchiefandwaspantinglikeadog,turningherfacetoandfro,tryingtodrawallthewonderful smells into herselfatonce.

“Ye look a bit better,”Michael said, smiling at her.Hewasstillpalehimself,buthe,too,seemedhappier.“Areyehungryyet?”

“I’m famished!” She casta starved look at the edge ofthe market. “Could we stop,maybe, and buy an apple?

I’ve a bit of money.…” Shefumbled for the coins in herstocking top, but he stoppedher.

“Nay, there’ll be food a-plenty at the house. Theywereexpectingmethisweek,soeverythingwillbeready.”

She stared longingly atthe market for a briefmoment, then turnedobligingly in thedirectionhepointed, craning out thecarriage window to see his

houseastheyapproached.“That’s the biggest house

I’ve ever seen!” sheexclaimed.

“Och, no,” he said,laughing. “Lallybroch’sbiggerthanthat.”

“Well … this one’staller,” she replied. And itwas—agoodfourstories,andahugeroofofleadslatesandgreen-coppered seams, withwhat must be more than ascoreofglasswindowssetin,

and…She was still trying to

count the windows whenMichael helped her downfromthecarriageandofferedherhisarmtowalkuptothedoor.Shewasgogglingatthebigyewtreessetinbrasspotsand wondering how muchtrouble it must be to keepthosepolished,when she felthis arm go suddenly rigid aswood.

She glanced at Michael,

startled,thenlookedwherehewas looking—toward thedoor of his house. The doorhad swung open, and threepeoplewerecomingdownthemarble steps, smiling andwaving,callingout.

“Who’s that?” Joanwhispered, leaning close toMichael.Theoneshortfellowinthestripedapronmustbeabutler; she’d read aboutbutlers. But the other manwasagentleman, limber as a

willow tree and wearing acoat and waistcoat striped inlemon and pink—with a hatdecorated with … well, shesupposeditmustbeafeather,but she’d pay money to seethe bird it came off. Bycomparison, she had hardlynoticed thewoman,whowasdressedinblack.Butnowshesaw that Michael had eyesonlyforthewoman.

“Lé—” he began, andchokeditback.“Lé—Léonie.

Léonie is her name. Mywife’ssister.”

Joan looked sharp then,because from the look ofMichael Murray, he’d justseen his wife’s ghost. ButLéonie seemed flesh andblood, slender and pretty,thoughherownfaceborethesamemarksof sorrowasdidMichael’s, and her face waspaleunderasmall,neatblacktricorne with a tiny curledbluefeather.

“Michel,” she said. “Oh,Michel!” And with tearsbrimming from eyes shapedlike almonds, she threwherselfintohisarms.

Feeling extremelysuperfluous, Joan stood backa little and glanced at thegentleman in the lemon-striped waistcoat—the butlerhad tactfully withdrawn intothehouse.

“Charles Pépin,mademoiselle,” he said,

sweeping off his hat. Takingherhand,hebowedlowoverit,andnowshesawthebandof black mourning he worearound his bright sleeve. “Avotreservice.”

“Oh,” she said, a littleflustered. “Um. JoanMacKimmie. Jesuis…er…um…”

“Tell him not to do it,”said a sudden small, calmvoiceinsideherhead,andshejerkedherownhandawayas

thoughhe’dbittenher.“Pleased to meet you,”

she gasped. “Excuse me.”And, turning, threw up intooneofthebronzeyewpots.

***Joan had been afraid it

would be awkward, comingto Michael’s bereaved andemptyhouse, but had steeledherself to offer comfort andsupport, as became a distantkinswomanandadaughterof

God. She might have beenmiffed, therefore, to findherself entirely supplanted inthe department of comfortand support—quite relegatedto the negligible position ofguest, in fact, served politelyand asked periodically if shewishedmorewine, a slice ofham, some gherkins … butotherwise ignored, whileMichael’s servants, sister-in-law, and… shewasn’t quitesure of the position of M.

Pépin, though he seemed tohave something personal todo with Léonie—perhapssomeonehadsaidhewashercousin?—all swirled roundMichael like perfumedbathwater, warm andbuoyant, touching him,kissing him—well, all right,she’d heard of men kissingoneanotherinFrance,butshecouldn’thelpstaringwhenM.PépingaveMichaelabigwetone on both cheeks—and

generallymaking a fuss overhim.

She was more thanrelieved, though, not to haveto make conversation inFrench, beyond a simplemerci or s’il vous plaît fromtime to time. It gave her achance to settle her nerves—and her stomach, and shewould say the wine was awonderforthat—andtokeepa close eye on MonsieurCharlesPépin.

“Tell him not to do it.”And just what d’ye mean bythat? she demanded of thevoice. She didn’t get ananswer,whichdidn’tsurpriseher.Thevoicesweren’tmuchfordetails.

She couldn’t tell whetherthe voices were male orfemale; they didn’t seemeitherone,andshewonderedwhethertheymightmaybebeangels—angels didn’t have asex, anddoubtless that saved

themalotoftrouble.JoanofArc’s voices had had thedecency to introducethemselves, but not hers, oh,no.Ontheotherhand,iftheywereangelsandtoldhertheirnames, she wouldn’trecognize them anyway, soperhaps that’s why theydidn’tbother.

Well, so. Did thisparticular voice mean thatCharles Pépin was a villain?She squinted closely at him.

He didn’t look it. He had astrong, good-looking face,and Michael seemed to likehim—after all,Michaelmustbe a fair judge of character,she thought, and him in thewinebusiness.

What was it MonsieurCharlesPépinoughtn’t todo,though? Did he have somewicked crime in mind? Ormight he be bent on doingaway with himself, like thatpoor wee gomerel on the

boat? There was still a traceof slime on her hand, fromtheseaweed.

She rubbed her handinconspicuously against theskirt of her dress, frustrated.She hoped the voices wouldstop once she was in theconvent.Thatwashernightlyprayer. But if they didn’t, atleastshemightbeabletotellsomeone there about themwithout fear of being packedoff to a madhouse or stoned

in the street. She’d have aconfessor, she knew thatmuch. Maybe he could helpher discover what God hadmeant,landingherwithagiftlike this, and no explanationwhatshewastodowithit.

In the meantime,Monsieur Pépin would bearwatching; she should maybesay something to Michaelbefore she left. Aye, what?shethought,helpless.

Still, shewas glad to see

thatMichaelgrewlesspaleasthey all carried on, vying tofeed him tidbits, refill hisglass, tell himbits of gossip.Shewas also pleased to findthat she mostly understoodwhattheyweresaying,assherelaxed.Jared—thatwouldbeJared Fraser, Michael’selderly cousin, who’dfounded the wine company,and whose house this was—was still in Germany, theysaid,butwasexpectedatany

moment.Hehad sent a letterfor Michael, too; where wasit? No matter, it would turnup…andMadameNesle deLa Tourelle had had a fit, averitable fit, at court lastWednesday, when she cameface-to-face withMademoiselle de Perpignanwearing a confection in theparticular shade of pea greenthat was de La Tourelle’salone, and God alone knewwhy, because she always

lookedlikeacheeseinit,andhadslappedherownmaidsohardforpointingthisoutthatthe poor girl flew across therushes and cracked her headon one of themirroredwalls—and cracked the mirror,too,verybadluckthat,butnoone could agree whether thebad luck was de LaTourelle’s, the maid’s, or dePerpignan’s.

Birds, Joan thoughtdreamily, sipping her wine.

They sound just like cheerfulwee birds in a tree, allchatteringawaytogether.

“The bad luck belongs tothe seamstresswhomade thedress for de Perpignan,”Michael said, a faint smiletouchinghismouth.“OncedeLa Tourelle finds out who itis.” His eye lighted on Joanthen,sittingtherewithafork—an actual fork, and silver,too!—inherhand,hermouthhalf open in the effort of

concentration required tofollowtheconversation.

“Sister Joan—SisterGregory, I mean—I’m thatsorry, I was forgetting. Ifye’vehadenoughtoeat,willye have a bit of a wash,maybe,before Ideliverye totheconvent?”

He was already rising,reachingforabell,andbeforeshe knew where she was, amaidservant hadwhisked heroff upstairs, deftly undressed

her, and, wrinkling her noseat the smell of the discardedgarments, wrapped Joan in arobe of the most amazinggreen silk, light as air, andusheredherintoasmallstoneroomwithacopperbathinit,then disappeared, sayingsomething in which Joancaughttheword“eau.”

She sat on the woodenstool provided, clutching therobe about her nakedness,headspinningwithmorethan

wine.Sheclosedhereyesandtook deep breaths, trying toput herself in the way ofpraying. God waseverywhere, she assuredherself, embarrassing as itwastocontemplatehimbeingwith her in a bathroom inParis. She shut her eyesharder and firmly began therosary, starting with theJoyfulMysteries.

She’d got through theVisitationbeforeshebeganto

feelsteadyagain.Thiswasn’tquitehowshe’dexpectedherfirst day in Paris to be. Still,she’dhavesomethingtowritehometoMamabout,thatwasfor sure. If they let herwritelettersintheconvent.

The maid came in withtwo enormous cans ofsteaming water and upendedthese into the bath with atremendous splash. Anothercame in on her heels,similarly equipped, and

between them they had Joanup, stripped, and steppinginto the tub before she’d somuchassaidthefirstwordoftheLord’sPrayerforthethirddecade.

They said French thingsto her, which she didn’tunderstand, and held outpeculiar-looking instrumentsto her in invitation. Sherecognized the small pot ofsoap and pointed at it, andone of them at once poured

wateronherheadandbegantowashherhair!

She had formonths beenbidding farewell to her hairwhenever she combed it,quite resigned to its loss, forwhether shemust sacrifice itimmediately, as a postulant,orlater,asanovice,plainlyitmust go. The shock ofknowing fingers rubbing herscalp, the sheer sensualdelight of warm watercoursingthroughherhair,the

softwetweightof it lying inropes down over her breasts—was this God’s way ofasking if she’d truly thoughtit through? Did she knowwhatshewasgivingup?

Well, she did, then. Andshehad thought about it. Onthe other hand … shecouldn’t make them stop,really; it wouldn’t bemannerly.Thewarmthof thewater was making the wineshe’d drunk course faster

through her blood, and shefeltasthoughshewerebeingkneaded like toffee,stretchedand pulled, all glossy andfallingintolanguidloops.Sheclosed her eyes and gave uptrying to remember howmanyHailMarysshehadyettogointhethirddecade.

It wasn’t until the maidshad hauled her, pink andsteaming,outof thebathandwrapped her in a mostremarkable huge fuzzy kind

of towel that she emergedabruptly from her sensualtrance.Thecoldaircoalescedinherstomach,remindingherthatallthisluxurywasindeedalureofthedevil—forlostingluttony and sinful bathing,she’d forgot entirely aboutthe young man on the ship,the poor despairing sinnerwho had thrown himself intothesea.

The maids had gone forthe moment. She dropped at

oncetoherkneesonthestonefloor and threw off thecoddlingtowels,exposingherbare skin to the full chill oftheairinpenance.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa,mea maxima culpa,” shebreathed, knocking a fistagainst her bosom in aparoxysm of sorrow andregret. The sight of thedrowned young man was inher mind, soft brown hairfannedacrosshischeek,eyes

half closed, seeingnothing—andwhatterriblethingwasitthathe’d seen,or thoughtof,before he jumped, that he’dscreamedso?

She thought briefly ofMichael, thelookonhisfacewhen he spoke of his poorwife—perhaps the youngbrown-haired man had lostsomeone dear and couldn’tfacehislifealone?

She should have spokento him. That was the

undeniable, terrible truth. Itdidn’t matter that she didn’tknowwhattosay.Sheshouldhave trustedGod to give herwords, ashehadwhen she’dspokentoMichael.

“Forgiveme,Father!”shesaid urgently, out loud.“Please—forgiveme,givemestrength!”

She’d betrayed that pooryoungman.Andherself.AndGod, who’d given her theterrible gift of sight for a

reason.Andthevoices…“Whydidyenottellme?”

she cried. “Have ye nothingto say for yourselves?” Hereshe’d thought the voicesthose of angels, and theyweren’t—just drifting bits ofbog mist, getting into herhead, pointless,useless…uselessasshewas,oh,LordJesus…

She didn’t know howlong she knelt there, naked,half drunk, and in tears. She

heard themuffled squeaksofdismay from the Frenchmaids,whopokedtheirheadsin and just as quicklywithdrew them, but paid noattention. She didn’t know ifit was right even to pray forthe poor young man—forsuicidewasamortal sin,andsurely he’d gone straight tohell. But she couldn’t givehimup;shecouldn’t.Shefeltsomehow that he’d been hercharge, that she’d carelessly

let him fall, and surely Godwould not hold the youngman entirely responsiblewhen it was she who shouldhave been watching out forhim.

And so she prayed, withall the energy of body andmind and spirit, askingmercy. Mercy for the youngman, for wee Ronnie andwretchedauldAngus—mercyforpoorMichael,andfor thesoul of Lillie, his dear wife,

and their babe unborn. Andmercy for herself, thisunworthy vessel of God’sservice.

“I’ll do better!” shepromised,sniffingandwipingher nose on the fluffy towel.“Truly,Iwill.I’llbebraver.Iwill.”

***Michael took the

candlestickfromthefootman,saidgoodnight, and shut the

door.HehopedSisteralmost-Gregory was comfortable;he’d told the staff to put herin the main guest room. Hewas fairly sure she’d sleepwell. He smiled wryly tohimself; unaccustomed towine, and obviously nervousincompany,she’dsippedherway through most of adecanter of Jerez sherrybefore he noticed, and wassitting in the corner withunfocused eyes and a small

inward smile that remindedhimofapaintinghehadseenat Versailles, a thing thesteward had called LaGioconda.

He couldn’t very welldeliver her to the convent insuch a condition and hadgently escorted her upstairsand given her into the handsofthechambermaids,bothofwhom regarded her withsome wariness, as though atipsy nunwere a particularly

dangerouscommodity.He’ddrunka fairamount

himself in the course of theafternoonandmoreatdinner.He and Charles had sat uplate,talkinganddrinkingrumpunch. Not talking ofanythinginparticular;hehadjust wanted not to be alone.Charleshadinvitedhimtogoto the gaming rooms—Charles was an inveterategambler—but was kindenough to accept his refusal

and simply bear himcompany.

The candle flame blurredbrieflyatthoughtofCharles’skindness. He blinked andshookhishead,whichproveda mistake; the contentsshifted abruptly, and hisstomachroseinprotestatthesuddenmovement.Hebarelymadeittothechamberpotintimeand,onceevacuated,laynumbly on the floor, cheekpressedtothecoldboards.

Itwasn’t that he couldn’tget up and go to bed. Itwasthat he couldn’t face thethought of the cold whitesheets, thepillows roundandsmooth, as though Lillie’shead had never dented them,thebedneverknowntheheatofherbody.

Tears ran sideways overthe bridge of his nose anddripped on the floor. Therewas a snuffling noise, andPlonploncamesquirmingout

fromunderthebedandlickedhis face, whining anxiously.Aftera littlewhile,he satupand, leaning against the sideofthebedwiththedoginonearm, reachedfor thedecanterofportthatthebutlerhadleft—by instruction—on thetablebesideit.

***The smell was appalling.

Rakoczy had wrapped awoolen comforter about his

lower face, but the odorseepedin,putridandcloying,clinging to the back of thethroat, so that evenbreathingthrough the mouth didn’tpreserveyoufromthestench.He breathed as shallowly ashecould, though,pickinghiswaycarefullypasttheedgeofthe cemetery by the narrowbeam of a dark lantern. Themine lay well beyond it, butthe stench carried amazinglywhenthewindblewfromthe

east.The chalkmine had been

abandoned for years; it wasrumored to be haunted. Itwas. Rakoczy knew whathaunted it.Never religious—he was a philosopher and anatural scientist, a rationalist—he still crossed himself byreflex at the head of theladderthatleddowntheshaftintothosespectraldepths.

At least the rumors ofghosts and earth demons and

thewalkingdeadwouldkeepanyone from coming toinvestigate strange lightglowing from thesubterranean tunnels of theworkings, if itwasnoticedatall.Thoughjustincase…heopened the burlap bag, stillredolent of rats, and fishedout a bundle of pitchblendetorches and the oiled-silkpacket that held severallengths of cloth saturatedwithsalpêtre, saltsofpotash,

blue vitriol, verdigris, butterofantimony,anda fewotherinteresting compounds fromhislaboratory.

He found the blue vitriolby smell and wrapped thecloth tightly around the headofone torch, then—whistlingunderhisbreath—madethreemore torches, eachimpregnated with differentsalts. He loved this part. Itwas so simple, and soastonishinglybeautiful.

Hepausedforaminutetolisten, but it was well pastdark and the only soundswere those of the night itself—frogs chirping andbellowing in the distantmarshes by the cemetery,wind stirring the leaves ofspring. A few hovels sat ahalfmileaway,onlyonewithfirelightglowingdullyfromasmoke hole in the roof.Almost a pity there’s no onebut me to see this. He took

the littleclay firepot from itswrappingsandtouchedacoaltothecloth-wrappedtorch.Atinygreenflameflickeredlikeaserpent’stongue, thenburstintolifeinabrilliantglobeofghostlycolor.

He grinned at the sight,buttherewasnotimetolose;the torches wouldn’t lastforever, and there was worktobedone.Hetiedthebagtohis belt and, with the greenfire crackling softly in one

hand, climbed down intodarkness.

He paused at the bottom,breathing deep. The air wasclear, the dust long settled.No one had been down hererecently.Thedullwhitewallsglowed soft, eerie under thegreen light, and the passageyawned before him, black asa murderer’s soul. Evenknowing theplace aswell ashe did, and with light in hishand, itgavehimaqualm to

walkintoit.Isthatwhatdeathislike?

he wondered. A black voidthatyouwalked intowithnomore than a feeble glimmeroffaithinyourhand?Hislipscompressed.Well, he’d donethat before, if lesspermanently. But he dislikedthe way that the notion ofdeath seemed always to belurking in the back of hismindthesedays.

The main tunnel was

large, big enough for twomentowalksidebyside,andthe roof was high enoughabove him that the roughlyexcavated chalk lay inshadow, barely touched byhis torch. The side tunnelswere smaller, though. Hecounted the ones on the leftand, despite himself, hurriedhis step a little as he passedthe fourth.Thatwaswhere itlay, down the side tunnel, aturntotheleft,anothertothe

left—was it “widdershins”the English called it, turningagainst the direction of thesun? He thought that waswhatMélisande had called itwhenshe’dbroughthimhere.…

The sixth. His torch hadbegun to gutter already, andhe pulled another from thebag and lit it from theremainsofthefirst,whichhedropped on the floor at theentrance to the side tunnel,

leavingittoflareandsmolderbehind him, the smokecatching at his throat. Heknewhisway,butevenso,itwas as well to leavelandmarks, here in the realmofeverlastingnight.Theminehaddeeprooms,onefarbackthatshowedstrangepaintingson the wall, of animals thatdidn’t exist but had anastonishing vividness, asthough theywould leap fromthe wall and stampede down

the passages. Sometimes—rarely—he went all the waydown into the bowels of theearth,justtolookatthem.

The fresh torch burnedwiththewarmlightofnaturalfire,andthewhitewallstookon a rosy glow. So did thepainting at the end of thecorridor, this one different: acrude but effective renderingof the Annunciation. Hedidn’t know who had madethe paintings that appeared

unexpectedly here and therein the mines—most were ofreligioussubjects,afewmostemphatically not—but theywere useful. There was aniron ring in the wall by theAnnunciation, and he set historchintoit.

Turn back at theAnnunciation, then threepaces…Hestampedhisfoot,listening for the faint echo,and found it.He’d brought atrowel in his bag, and itwas

theworkofafewmomentstouncover the sheet of tin thatcoveredhiscache.

Thecacheitselfwasthreefeet deep and three feetsquare—hefoundsatisfactionin the knowledge of itsperfect cubicity whenever hesaw it; anyalchemistwasbyprofessionanumerologist, aswell. It was half full, thecontentswrappedinburlaporcanvas, not things hewantedto carry openly through the

streets.Ittooksomeproddingand unwrapping to find thepieces he wanted. MadameFabienne had driven a hardbargain but a fair one: twohundred ècus a month timesfour months for theguaranteed exclusive use ofMadeleine’sservices.

Fourmonthswouldsurelybe enough, he thought,feeling a rounded shapethroughitswrappings.Infact,he thought one night would

be enough, but his man’spride was restrained by ascientist’s prudence. Andeven if … there was alwayssome chance of earlymiscarriage; hewanted to besure of the child before heundertook anymore personalexperiments with the spacebetween times. If he knewthat something of himself—someone with his peculiarabilities—might be left, justincasethistime…

He could feel it there,somewhere in the smothereddarkbehindhim.Heknewhecouldn’t hear it now; it wassilent, save on the days ofsolsticeandequinoxorwhenyou actually walked intoit…buthe felt the soundofit in his bones, and it madehis hands tremble on thewrappings.

The gleam of silver, ofgold. He chose two goldsnuffboxes, a filigreed

necklace, and—with somehesitation—a small silversalver.Why did the void notaffectmetal?hewonderedforthe thousandth time. In fact,carrying gold or silver easedthe passage—or at least hethought so. Mélisande hadtold him it did. But jewelswerealwaysdestroyedbythepassage,thoughtheygavethemostcontrolandprotection.

That made some sense;everyone knew that

gemstones had a specificvibrationthatcorrespondedtotheheavenlyspheres,andthespheres themselves of courseaffected the earth: As above,sobelow.Hestillhadnoideaexactly how the vibrationsshould affect the space, theportal … it. But thinkingabout it gave him a need totouch them, to reassurehimself, and he movedwrapped bundles out of theway, digging down to the

left-handcornerofthewood-lined cache, where pressingon a particular nailheadcaused one of the boards toloosen and turn sideways,rotating smoothly onspindles.He reached into thedark space thus revealed andfound the small washleatherbag, feeling his sense ofuneasedissipateatoncewhenhetouchedit.

He opened it and pouredthe contents into his palm,

glittering and sparking in thedarkhollowofhishand.Redand blues and greens, thebrilliant white of diamonds,the lavender and violet ofamethyst, and the goldenglow of topaz and citrine.Enough?

Enough to travel back,certainly. Enough to steerhimself with some accuracy,to choose how far he went.Butenoughtogoforward?

Heweighed the glittering

handful for a moment, thenpoured them carefully back.Not yet. But he had time tofind more; he wasn’t goinganywhere for at least fourmonths.NotuntilhewassurethatMadeleine was well andtrulywithchild.

***“Joan.” Michael put his

handonherarm,keepingherfrom leaping out of thecarriage.“Ye’resure,now?I

mean, if ye didna feel quiteready, ye’rewelcome to stayatmyhouseuntil—”

“I’m ready.” She didn’tlookathim,andherfacewaspaleasaslaboflard.“Letmego,please.”

He reluctantly let go ofher arm but insisted upongetting down with her andringing the bell at the gate,stating their business to theportress.Allthetime,though,he could feel her shaking,

quivering like a blancmange.Was it fear, though, or justunderstandable nerves? He’dfeel a bit cattywampushimself, he thought withsympathy, were he makingsuchashift,beginninganewlife so different from whathadgonebefore.

Theportresswentawaytofetch the mistress ofpostulants, leaving them inthe little enclosure by thegatehouse. From here, he

could see across a sunnycourtyardwithacloisterwalkon the far side and whatlooked like extensive kitchengardens to the right. To theleft was the looming bulk ofthe hospital run by the orderand, beyond that, the otherbuildingsthatbelongedtotheconvent. It was a beautifulplace,hethought—andhopedthesightofitwouldsettleherfears.

She made an inarticulate

noise, and he glanced at her,alarmed to see what lookedliketearsslickinghercheeks.

“Joan,” he said morequietly, and handed her hisfreshhandkerchief.“Dinnabeafraid.Ifyeneedme,sendforme,anytime;I’llcome.AndImeantitabouttheletters.”

Hewouldhavesaidmore,but just then the portressreappeared with SisterEustacia, the postulantmistress, who greeted Joan

withakindmotherliness thatseemed to comfort her, forthe girl sniffed andstraightened herself and,reaching into her pocket,pulled out a little foldedsquare, obviously kept withcarethroughhertravels.

“J’aiunelettre,”shesaidin halting French. “PourMadame le … pour …Reverend Mother?” she saidin a small voice. “MotherHildegarde?”

“Oui?” Sister Eustaciatook the note with the samecare with which it wasproffered.

“It’s from … her,” Joansaid to Michael, havingplainlyrunoutofFrench.Shestill wouldn’t look at him.“Da’s … er … wife. Youknow.Claire.”

“Jesus Christ!” Michaelblurted, making both theportress and the postulantmistress stare reprovingly at

him.“Shesaidshewasafriend

ofMotherHildegarde.Andifshe was still alive …” ShestolealookatSisterEustacia,who appeared to havefollowedthis.

“Oh, Mother Hildegardeis certainly alive,” sheassured Joan, in English.“And I’m sure she will bemost interested tospeakwithyou.” She tucked the noteinto her own capacious

pocket and held out a hand.“Now, my dear child, if youarequiteready…”

“Jesuisprêt,” Joan said,shaky but dignified. And soJoan MacKimmie ofBalriggan passed through thegates of the Convent ofAngels, still clutchingMichael Murray’s cleanhandkerchief and smellingstrongly of his dead wife’sscentedsoap.

***Michaelhaddismissedhis

carriage and wanderedrestlessly about the city afterleaving Joan at the convent,not wanting to go home. Hehopedtheywouldbegoodtoher, hoped that she’d madetherightdecision.

Of course, he comfortedhimself, she wouldn’tactually be a nun for sometime. He didn’t know quitehow long it took, from

entering as a postulant tobecoming a novice to takingthe final vows of poverty,chastity, and obedience, butat least a few years. Therewould be time for her to besure.Andatleastshewasinaplace of safety; the look ofterroranddistressonherfaceas she’d shot through thegates of the convent stillhaunted him. He strolledtoward the river, where theevening light glowed on the

water like a bronze mirror.Thedeckhandsweretiredandthe day’s shouting had diedaway. In this light, thereflections of the boatsgliding homeward seemedmore substantial than theboatsthemselves.

He’dbeensurprisedattheletter and wondered whetherthat had anything to do withJoan’s distress. He’d had nonotion that his uncle’s wifehad anything to do with le

Couvent des Anges—thoughnowhecasthismindback,hedid recall Jared mentioningthatUncleJamiehadworkedin Paris in thewine businessfor a short time, back beforethe Rising. He supposedClaire might have metMother Hildegardethen… but it was all beforehewasborn.

He felt anoddwarmthatthe thought of Claire; hecouldn’treallythinkofheras

his auntie, though she was.He’d not spent much timewith her alone at Lallybroch—but he couldn’t forget themomentwhenshe’dmethim,alone at the door. Greetedhim briefly and embracedhimonimpulse.Andhe’dfeltan instant sense of relief, asthough she’d taken a heavyburden from his heart. Ormaybe lanced a boil on hisspirit,asshemightoneonhisbum.

That thought made himsmile. He didn’t know whatshe was—the talk nearLallybroch painted her aseverythingfromawitchtoanangel, with most of theopinion hovering cautiouslyaround “faerie,” for theAuldOnes were dangerous, andyou didn’t talk too muchaboutthem—buthelikedher.So did Da and Young Ian,and that counted for a lot.And Uncle Jamie, of course

—thougheveryonesaid,verymatter-of-fact, that UncleJamie was bewitched. Hesmiled wryly at that. Aye, ifbeingmad in lovewith yourwifewasbewitchment.

If anyone outside thefamily kent what she’d toldthem—he cut that thoughtshort. It wasn’t somethinghe’d forget, but it wasn’tsomethinghewantedtothinkabout just yet, either. Thegutters of Paris running with

blood … He glanced downinvoluntarily, but the gutterswere full of the usualassortment of animal andhumansewage,deadrats,andbitsofrubbishtoofargonetobesalvagedfor foodevenbythestreetbeggars.

He walked, making hisway slowly through thecrowded streets, past LaChapelleand theTuileries. Ifhewalkedenough,sometimeshe could fall asleep without

toomuchwine.He sighed, elbowing his

way through a group ofbuskers outside a tavern,turning back toward the RueTrémoulins. Some days, hishead was like a bramblepatch: thornscatchingathimno matter which way heturned, and no path leadingoutofthetangle.

Paris wasn’t a large city,butitwasacomplicatedone;therewas always somewhere

else to walk. He crossed thePlace de la Corcorde,thinking of what Claire hadtold them, seeing there inhismind the tall shadow of aterriblemachine.

***Joan had had her dinner

with Mother Hildegarde, alady so ancient andholy thatJoanhadfearedtobreathetooheavily, lest MotherHildegarde fragment like a

stalecroissantandgostraightoff toheaven in frontofher.Mother Hildegarde had beendelightedwith the letter Joanhad delivered, though; itbrought a faint flush to herface.

“From my … er …”Martha, Mary, and Lazarus,whatwastheFrenchwordfor“stepmother”? “Ahh … thewife of my …” Fittens, shedidn’t know the word for“stepfather,” either! “The

wifeofmyfather,”sheendedweakly.

“You are the daughter ofmy good friend Claire!”Mother had exclaimed. “Andhowisshe?”

“Bonny, er … bon, Imean, last I saw her,” saidJoan, and then tried toexplain,buttherewasalotofFrench being spoken veryfast, and she gave up andaccepted the glass of winethat Mother Hildegarde

offeredher.Shewasgoingtobeasot longbeforeshe tookhervows,she thought, tryingto hide her flushed face bybending down to patMother’s wee dog, a fluffy,friendly creature the color ofburntsugar,namedBouton.

Whether it was the wineor Mother’s kindness, herwobbly spirit steadied.Mother hadwelcomed her tothecommunityandkissedherforehead at the end of the

meal, before sending her offin the charge of SisterEustaciatoseetheconvent.

Now she lay on hernarrow cot in the dormitory,listeningtothebreathingofadozen other postulants. Itsounded like a byre full ofcowsandhadmuchthesamewarm, humid scent—bar themanure. Her eyes filled withtears, the vision of thehomely stone byre atBalriggansuddenandvividin

her mind. She swallowedthem back, though, pinchingherlipstogether.Afewofthegirls sobbed quietly, missinghome and family, but shewouldn’tbeoneofthem.Shewas older than most—a fewwere naymore than fourteen—andshe’dpromisedGodtobebrave.

Ithadn’tbeenbadduringtheafternoon.SisterEustaciahad been very kind, takingherandacoupleofothernew

postulants round the walledestate, showing them the biggardens where the conventgrew medicinal herbs andfruit and vegetables for thetable, the chapel wheredevotionswereheldsixtimesa day, plus Mass in themornings, the stables andkitchens, where they wouldtake turns working—and thegreat Hôpital des Anges, theorder’smainwork.Theyhadonlyseenthehôpitalfromthe

outside, though; they wouldsee the inside tomorrow,when Sister Marie-Amadeuswouldexplaintheirduties.

It was strange, of course—she still understood onlyhalf what people said to herand was sure from the lookson their faces that theyunderstoodmuchlessofwhatshe tried to say to them—butwonderful. She loved thespiritual discipline, the hoursofdevotion,withthesenseof

peace and unity that cameupon the sisters as theychanted and prayed together.Loved the simple beauty ofthe chapel, amazing in itscleanelegance,thesolidlinesof granite and the grace ofcarvedwood,afaintsmellofincense in the air, like thebreathofangels.

The postulants prayedwiththeothersbutdidnotyetsing. They would be trainedin music—such excitement!

Mother Hildegarde had beena famous musician in heryouth, it was rumored, andconsidered itoneof themostimportantformsofdevotion.

The thought of the newthings she’d seen, and thenew things to come,distracted her mind—a little—from thoughts of hermother’s voice, the wind offthemoors,the…Sheshovedthese hastily away andreached for her new rosary,

this a substantial thing withsmoothwoodenbeads,lovelyandcomfortinginthefingers.

Above all, there waspeace. She hadn’t heard aword from thevoices, hadn’tseen anything peculiar oralarming. She wasn’t foolishenough to think she’descaped her dangerous gift,but at least there might behelp at hand if—when—itcameback.

And at least she already

knewenoughLatintosayherrosary properly; Da hadtaughther.“Ave,Maria,”shewhispered, “gratia plena,Dominus tecum,” and closedher eyes, the sobs of thehomesick fading in her earsasthebeadsmovedslowandsilentthroughherfingers.

NextdayMichael Murray stood in

the aisle of the aging shed,feelingpunyandunreal.He’d

waked with a terribleheadache,theresultofhavingdrunk a great deal of mixedspirits on an empty stomach,and while the headache hadreceded toadull throbat theback of his skull, it had lefthimfeeling trampledand leftfor dead. His cousin Jared,owner of Fraser et Cie,looked at him with the coldeyeoflongexperience,shookhis head and sighed deeply,but said nothing, merely

taking the list from hisnerveless fingers andbeginning the count on hisown.

He wished Jared hadrebuked him. Everyone stilltiptoed round him, careful ofhim.And like awetdressingon a wound, their care keptthe wound of Lillie’s lossopen andweeping. The sightof Léonie didn’t help, either—somuch likeLillie to lookat, so different in character.

She said they must help andcomfort each other and, tothat end, came to visit everyotherday,orsoitseemed.Hereally wished shewould … just go away,though the thought shamedhim.

“How’s the wee nun,then?” Jared’svoice,dryandmatter-of-fact as always,drew him out of his bruisedand soggy thoughts. “Giveher a good send-off to the

convent?”“Aye. Well—aye. More

orless.”Michaelmusteredupa feeble smile. He didn’treally want to think aboutSister Gregory this morning,either.

“What did ye give her?”Jared handed the checklist toHumberto, the Italian shed-master, and looked Michaelover appraisingly. “I hope itwasna thenewRioja thatdidthattoye.”

“Ah … no.” Michaelstruggled to focus hisattention. The headyatmosphereoftheshed, thickwith the fruityexhalationsoftherestingcasks,wasmakinghim dizzy. “It was Moselle.Mostly. And a bit of rumpunch.”

“Oh, I see.” Jared’sancientmouth quirked up ononeside.“DidInever tellyenottomixwinewi’rum?”

“Not above two hundred

times,no.”Jaredwasmoving,and Michael followed himperforce down the narrowaisle,thecasksintheirserriedranks rising high above oneitherside.

“Rum’s a demon. Butwhisky’s a virtuous dram,”Jared said, pausingby a rackofsmallblackenedcasks.“Solongasit’sagoodmake,it’llneverturnonye.Speakin’ofwhich”—hetappedtheendofone cask,which gave off the

resonant deep thunk of a fullbarrel—“what’s this? Itcameup from the docks thismorning.”

“Oh,aye.”Michaelstifledabelch and smiledpainfully.“That, cousin, is the IanAlastair Robert MacLeodMurray memorial uisgebaugh. My da and UncleJamie made it during thewinter. They thought yemight like a wee cask foryourpersonaluse.”

Jared’sbrowsroseandhegave Michael a swiftsideways glance. Then heturned back to examine thecask,bendingclosetosniffattheseambetween the lidandstaves.

“I’ve tasted it,” Michaelassuredhim.“Idinnathinkitwillpoisonye.Butyeshouldmaybeletitageafewyears.”

Jared made a rude noisein his throat, and his handcurved gently over the swell

of the staves. He stood thusfor a moment as though inbenediction, then turnedsuddenly and took Michaelinto his arms. His ownbreathing was hoarse,congested with sorrow. Hewas years older thanDa andUncle Jamie but had knownthetwoofthemalltheirlives.

“I’m sorry for yourfaither, lad,” he said after amoment, and let go, pattingMichael on the shoulder. He

lookedatthecaskandsniffeddeeply. “I can tell it will befine.” He paused, breathingslowly, thennoddedonce, asthoughmakinguphismindtosomething.

“I’ve a thing in mind, acharaid. I’d been thinking,since ye went to Scotland—and now that we’ve akinswoman in the church, sotospeak…Comebacktotheoffice with me, and I’ll tellye.”

***Itwaschillyinthestreet,

but the goldsmith’s backroom was cozy as a womb,with a porcelain stovethrobbing with heat andwovenwool hangings on thewalls. Rakoczy hastilyunwoundthecomforterabouthisneck.Itdidn’tdotosweatindoors; thesweatchilledtheinstant one went out again,and next thing you knew, itwould be la grippe at the

best,pleurisyorpneumoniaattheworst.

Rosenwald himself wascomfortable in shirt andwaistcoat, without even awig, only a plum-coloredturban to keep his polledscalpwarm. The goldsmith’sstubby fingers traced thecurves of the octofoil salver,turned it over—and stoppeddead. Rakoczy felt the tingleofwarning at thebaseof hisspineanddeliberatelyrelaxed

himself, affecting anonchalantself-confidence.

“Where did you get this,monsieur, if I may ask?”Rosenwald lookedupathim,buttherewasnoaccusationinthe goldsmith’s aged face—onlyawaryexcitement.

“It was an inheritance,”Rakoczy said, glowing withearnest innocence. “Anelderlyauntleftit—andafewother pieces—to me. Is itworthanythingmorethanthe

valueofthesilver?”Thegoldsmithopenedhis

mouth, then shut it, glancingat Rakoczy. Was he honest?Rakoczy wondered withinterest.He’salreadytoldmeit’ssomethingspecial.Willhetell me why, in hopes ofgetting other pieces? Or lie,to get this one cheap?Rosenwald had a goodreputation,buthewasaJew.

“Paul de Lamerie,”Rosenwald said reverently,

his index finger tracing thehallmark.“ThiswasmadebyPauldeLamerie.”

AshockranupRakoczy’sbackbone. Merde! He’dbroughtthewrongone!

“Really?”hesaid,strivingfor simple curiosity. “Doesthatmeansomething?”

It means I’m a fool, hethought, and wonderedwhether to snatch the thingbackand leave instantly.Thegoldsmith had carried it

away, though, to look at itmorecloselyunderthelamp.

“De Lamerie was one oftheverybestgoldsmithseverto work in London—perhapsin the world,” Rosenwaldsaid,halftohimself.

“Indeed,” Rakoczy saidpolitely. He was sweatingfreely.Nomd’unepipe!Wait,though—Rosenwald had said“was.”DeLameriewasdead,then, thankGod. Perhaps theDuke of Sandringham, from

whomhe’d stolen the salver,was dead, too? He began tobreathemoreeasily.

He never sold anythingidentifiable within a hundredyears of his acquisition of it;that was his principle. He’dtaken theother salver fromarich merchant in a game ofcardsintheLowCountriesin1630; he’d stolen this one in1745—much too close forcomfort.Still…

His thoughts were

interrupted by the chime ofthe silver bell over the door,andhe turned to seeayoungman come in, removing hishat to reveal a startling headof dark-red hair. He wasdressed à la mode andaddressed the goldsmith inperfect Parisian French, buthe didn’t look French. Along-nosed face with faintlyslanted eyes. There was aslight sense of familiarityabout that face, yet Rakoczy

wassurehe’dneverseenthismanbefore.

“Please, sir, go on withyour business,” the youngman said with a courteousbow. “I meant nointerruption.”

“No, no,” Rakoczy said,stepping forward. Hemotioned the young mantoward the counter. “Please,go ahead. MonsieurRosenwald and I are merelydiscussing the value of this

object. It will take somethought.” He snaked out anarm and seized the salver,feeling a little better with itclasped to his bosom. Hewasn’t sure; if he decided itwastooriskytosell,hecouldslink out quietly whileRosenwaldwasbusywiththeredheadedyoungman.

The Jew looked surprisedbut, after a moment’shesitation,noddedandturnedto the young man, who

introduced himself as oneMichael Murray, partner inFraser et Cie, the winemerchants.

“I believe you areacquainted with my cousinJaredFraser?”

Rosenwald’s round facelighted at once. “Oh, to besure, sir!Aman of themostexquisite taste anddiscrimination. Imade him awine cistern with a motif ofsunflowers,notayearpast!”

“Iknow.”Theyoungmansmiled, a smile that creasedhis cheeks and narrowed hiseyes, and that small bell ofrecognition rang again. Butthe name held no familiarityto Rakoczy—only the face,andthatonlyvaguely.

“My uncle has anothercommission for you, if it’sagreeable?”

“Inever sayno tohonestwork, monsieur.” From thepleasure apparent on the

goldsmith’s rubicund face,honest work that paid verywellwasevenmorewelcome.

“Well, then—if I may?”The young man pulled afolded paper fromhis pocketbut half-turned towardRakoczy, eyebrow cocked ininquiry. Rakoczy motionedhim to go on and turnedhimself to examine a musicboxthatstoodonthecounter—anenormousthingthesizeof a cow’s head, crowned

with a nearly naked nymphfestooned with the airiest ofgolddraperiesanddancingonmushrooms and flowers, incompanywithalargefrog.

“A chalice,” Murray wassaying, the paper laid flat onthe counter. From the cornerofhiseye,Rakoczycouldseethat it held a list of names.“It’s a presentation to thechapel at le Couvent desAnges, to be given inmemory ofmy late father.A

youngcousinofminehasjustenteredtheconventthereasapostulant,” he explained. “SoMonsieur Fraser thought thatthebestplace.”

“An excellent choice.”Rosenwaldpickedupthelist.“And you wish all of thesenamesinscribed?”

“Yes,ifyoucan.”“Monsieur!” Rosenwald

waved a hand, professionallyinsulted. “These are yourfather’schildren?”

“Yes, these at thebottom.” Murray bent overthecounter,hisfingertracingthe lines, speaking theoutlandish names carefully.“At the top, these are myparents’ names: Ian AlastairRobertMacLeodMurray,andJanet Flora Arabella FraserMurray. Now, also, I—we, Imean—we want these twonames, as well: JamesAlexander MalcolmMacKenzieFraser,andClaire

Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser.Thosearemyuncleandaunt;my uncle was very close tomy father,” he explained.“Almostabrother.”

He went on sayingsomething else, but Rakoczywasn’t listening. He graspedthe edge of the counter,vision flickering so that thenymphseemedtoleerathim.

Claire Fraser. That hadbeen thewoman’sname,andher husband, James, a

Highland lordfromScotland.Thatwaswhotheyoungmanresembled,thoughhewasnotso imposing as … But LaDameBlanche! Itwasher, ithadtobe.

And in the next instant,thegoldsmithconfirmed this,straighteningup from the listwith an abrupt air ofwariness, as though one ofthe names might spring offthepaperandbitehim.

“That name—your aunt,

she’d be? Did she and youruncle live in Paris at onetime?”

“Yes,” Murray said,looking mildly surprised.“Maybe thirty years ago—onlyforashorttime,though.Didyouknowher?”

“Ah. Not to say I waspersonally acquainted,”Rosenwald said, with acrooked smile. “But shewas…known.PeoplecalledherLaDameBlanche.”

Murray blinked, clearlysurprisedtohearthis.

“Really?” He lookedratherappalled.

“Yes,butitwasallalongtime ago,” Rosenwald saidhastily, clearly thinking he’dsaid too much. He waved ahand toward his back room.“Ifyou’llgivemeamoment,monsieur, I have a chaliceactually here, if you wouldcare to see it—and a paten,too; we might make some

accommodation of price, ifyou take both. They weremade for a patron who diedsuddenly, before the chalicewas finished, so there isalmostnodecoration—plentyof room for the names to beapplied, and perhaps wemight put the, um, aunt anduncleonthepaten?”

Murray nodded,interested, and, atRosenwald’s gesture, wentround the counter and

followedtheoldmanintohisback room. Rakoczy put theoctofoil salver under his armand left, as quietly aspossible, head buzzing withquestions.

***Jared eyed Michael over

the dinner table, shook hishead,andbenttohisplate.

“I’mnotdrunk!”Michaelblurted, then bent his ownhead, face flaming.He could

feel Jared’s eyes boring intothetopofhishead.

“Not now, ye’re not.”Jared’s voice wasn’taccusing.Infact,itwasquiet,almost kindly. “But ye havebeen.Ye’venottouchedyourdinner,andye’rethecolorofrottenwax.”

“I—” The words caughtinhis throat, just as the foodhad.Eelsingarlicsauce.Thesmell wafted up from thedish, and he stood up

suddenly,lestheeithervomitorburstintotears.

“I’ve nay appetite,cousin,” he managed to say,beforeturningaway.“Excuseme.”

He would have left, buthe hesitated thatmoment toolong,notwantingtogouptothe room where Lillie nolongerwasbutnotwantingtolook petulant by rushing outintothestreet.Jaredroseandcame round to him with a

decidedstep.“I’m nay verra hungry

myself, a charaid,” Jaredsaid, taking him by the arm.“Come sit wi’ me for a bitand take a dram. It’ll settleyourwame.”

He didn’t much want to,but therewasnothingelsehecould think of doing, andwithin a few moments hefound himself in front of afragrant applewood fire,withaglassofhisfather’swhisky

in hand, the warmth of botheasing the tightness of chestand throat. It wouldn’t curehis grief, he knew, but itmadeitpossibletobreathe.

“Good stuff,” Jared said,sniffing cautiously butapprovingly. “Even raw as itis. It’ll be wonderful aged afewyears.”

“Aye. Uncle Jamie kenswhathe’sabout;hesaidhe’dmade whisky a good manytimesinAmerica.”

Jaredchuckled.“Your uncle Jamie

usually kens what he’sabout,” he said. “Not thatknowing it keeps him out o’trouble.” He shifted, makinghimself more comfortable inhis worn leather chair. “Hadit not been for the Rising,he’d likely have stayed herewi’ me. Aye, well …” Theold man sighed with regretand lifted his glass,examining the spirit. It was

stillnearlyaspaleaswater—ithadn’tbeencaskedaboveafew months—but had theslightlyviscouslookofafinestrong spirit, as if it mightclimb out of the glass if youtookyoureyeoffit.

“Andifhehad,IsupposeI’d not be here myself,”Michaelsaiddryly.

Jared glanced at him,surprised.

“Och!Ididnameantosayyewerebutapoor substitute

for Jamie, lad.” He smiledcrookedly, and his hoodedeyes grewmoist. “Not at all.Ye’ve been the best thingevertocometome.Youanddear wee Lillie, and …” Heclearedhis throat.“I…well,Icannasayanythingthatwillhelp, I ken that. But … itwon’talwaysbelikethis.”

“Won’t it?”Michael saidbleakly. “Aye, I’ll take yourword for it.” A silence fellbetween them, broken only

bythehissingandsnapofthefire. The mention of Lilliewas like an awl digging intohisbreastbone,andhetookadeeper sip of the whisky toquell the ache. Maybe Jaredwasrighttomentionthedrinkto him. It helped, but notenough. And the help didn’tlast. He was tired of wakingtogriefandheadacheboth.

Shying away fromthoughts of Lillie, his mindfastened on Uncle Jamie

instead. He’d lost his wife,too, and from what Michaelhad seen of the aftermath, ithadtornhissoulintwo.Thenshe’d comeback tohim, andhe was a man transformed.But in between … he’dmanaged. He’d found a waytobe.

ThinkingofAuntieClairegave him a slight feeling ofcomfort: as longashedidn’tthink too much about whatshe’d told the family,who—

orwhat—shewas,andwhereshe’d been while she wasgone those twentyyears.Thebrothers and sisters hadtalked among themselvesabout it afterward; YoungJamie and Kitty didn’tbelieve aword of it,Maggieand Janet weren’t sure—butYoung Ian believed it, andthat counted for a lot withMichael.Andshe’dlookedathim—rightathim—whenshesaid what was going to

happen in Paris. He felt thesame small thrill of horrornow, remembering. TheTerror.That’swhatitwillbecalled,andthat’swhatitwillbe. People will be arrestedfornocauseandbeheadedinthe Place de la Concorde.The streets will run withblood,andnoone—noone—willbesafe.

He looked at his cousin;Jaredwasanoldman,thoughstill hale enough. Michael

knew there was no way hecouldpersuadeJaredtoleaveParis and his wine business.Butitwouldbesometimeyet—ifAuntie Clairewas right.No need to think about itnow. But she’d seemed sosure,likeaseer,talkingfroma vantage point aftereverything had happened,fromasafertime.

Andyetshe’dcomebackfromthatsafetime,tobewithUncleJamieagain.

For a moment, heentertained the wild fantasythat Lillie wasn’t dead butonly swept away into adistant time.He couldn’t seeor touch her, but theknowledgethatshewasdoingthings,wasalive…maybeitwas knowing that, thinkingthat, that had kept UncleJamie whole. He swallowed,hard.

“Jared,” he said, clearinghisown throat. “Whatdidye

thinkofAuntieClaire?Whenshelivedhere?”

Jaredlookedsurprisedbutloweredhisglasstohisknee,pursinghislipsinthought.

“She was a bonny lass,I’ll tell ye that,” he said.“Verra bonny. A tongue liketheroughsideofarasp,ifshetook against something,though—and decidedopinions.”He nodded, twice,asthoughrecallingafew,andgrinned suddenly. “Verra

decidedindeed!”“Aye? The goldsmith—

Rosenwald, ye ken?—mentionedherwhenIwenttocommission the chalice andhe saw her name on the list.He called her La DameBlanche.” This last was notphrasedas aquestion, buthegave it a slight risinginflection, and Jared nodded,his smile widening into agrin.

“Oh, aye, I mind that!

’Twas Jamie’s notion. She’dfind herself now and then indangerousplaceswithouthim—kenhowsomefolkarejustthesortasthingshappento—soheputitaboutthatshewasLaDameBlanche.KenwhataWhiteLadyis,doye?”

Michael crossed himself,and Jared followed suit,nodding.

“Aye, just so. Make anywicked sod with villainy inmind think twice. A White

Lady can strike ye blind orshrivel a man’s balls, andlikelyafewmorethingsthanthat, should she take thenotion.AndI’dbethelast tosay that Claire Frasercouldn’t, if she’damind to.”Jaredraisedtheglassabsentlyto his lips, took a bigger sipof the raw spirit than he’dmeant to, and coughed,sprayingdropletsofmemorialwhisky halfway across theroom.

Rather to his own shock,Michaellaughed.

Jared wiped his mouth,stillcoughing,butthensatupstraight and lifted his glass,whichstillheldafewdrops.

“To your da. Slàintemhath!”

“Slàinte!” Michaelechoed, and drained whatremainedinhisownglass.Heset it down with finality androse. He’d drink nay moretonight.

“Oidhche mhath, mobràthair-atharnomathar.”

“Good night, lad,” saidJared. The fire was burninglow but still cast a warmruddyglowon theoldman’sface.“Fareyewell.”

NextnightMichael dropped his key

several times before finallymanagingtoturnitintheold-fashioned lock. It wasn’tdrink; he’d not had a drop

since the wine at supper.Instead, he’d walked thelength of the city and back,accompanied only by histhoughts; his whole bodyquiveredandhefeltmindlesswith exhaustion, but he wassure he would sleep. Jean-Baptiste had left the doorunbarred, according to hisorders, but one of thefootmen was sprawled on asettle in the entryway,snoring. He smiled a little,

though it was an effort toraise the corners of hismouth.

“Bolt the door and go tobed, Alphonse,” hewhispered, bending andshakingthemangentlybytheshoulder.Thefootmanstirredand snorted, but Michaeldidn’twait toseewhetherhewoke entirely. There was atiny oil lamp burning on thelanding of the stairs, a littleround glass globe in the

gaudy colors of Murano. Ithadbeen there since the firstdayhecamefromScotlandtostaywithJared,yearsbefore,and the sight of it soothedhimanddrewhisachingbodyupthewide,darkstair.

The house creaked andtalkedtoitselfatnight;alloldhouses did. Tonight, though,it was silent, the big copper-seamedroofgonecoldanditsmassive timbers settled intosomnolence.

He flung off his clothesand crawled naked into bed,head spinning. Tired as hewas, his flesh quivered andtwitched,hislegsjerkinglikea spitted frog’s, before hefinally relaxedenough to fallheadfirst into the seethingcauldron of dreams thatawaitedhim.

Shewas there, of course.Laughing at him, playingwith her ridiculous pug.Running a hand filled with

desire across his face, downhis neck, easing her bodyclose, and closer. Then theywere somehow in bed, withthe wind blowing coolthrough gauzy curtains, toocool,hefeltcold,butthenherwarmth came close, pressedagainsthim.Hefeltaterribledesire but at the same timefeared her. She felt utterlyfamiliar,utterlystrange—andthemixturethrilledhim.

He reached for her and

realizedthathecouldn’traisehisarms,couldn’tmove.Andyet she was against him,writhing in a slow squirm ofneed, greedy and tantalizing.Inthewayofdreams,hewasat the same time in front ofher,behindher,touching,andseeing from a distance.Candle glow on nakedbreasts, the shadowedweightof solid buttocks, fallingdrapes of parting white, oneround, firm leg protruding, a

pointed toe rooting gentlybetweenhislegs.Urgency.

She was curled behindhim then,kissing thebackofhis neck, and he reachedback, groping, but his handswereheavy,drifting;theyslidhelpless over her. Hers onhim were firm, more thanfirm—she had him by thecock, was working him.Working him hard, fast andhard.Hebuckedandheaved,suddenly released from the

dream swamp of immobility.She loosed her grip, tried topull away, but he folded hishand round hers and rubbedtheir folded hands hard upand down with joyousferocity, spilling himselfconvulsively, hot wet spurtsagainst his belly, runningthick over their clenchedknuckles.

She made a sound ofhorrifieddisgust,andhiseyesflew open. Staring into them

were apairofhuge,buggingeyes,overagargoyle’smouthfull of tiny, sharp teeth. Heshrieked.

Plonplon leaped off thebed and ran to and fro,barking hysterically. Therewas a body behind him.Michaelflunghimselfoffthebed, tangled in a windingsheet of damp, stickybedclothes, then fell androlledinpanic.

“Jesus,Jesus,Jesus!”

On his knees, he gaped,rubbed his hands hard overhis face, shook his head.Could not make sense of it,couldn’t.

“Lillie,” he gasped.“Lillie!”

Butthewomaninhisbed,tears running down her face,wasn’t Lillie; he realized itwithawrenchthatmadehimgroan, doubling up in thedesolationoffreshloss.

“Oh,Jesus!”

“Michel, Michel, please,pleaseforgiveme!”

“You … what … forGod’ssake…!”

Léonie was weepingfrantically, reaching outtowardhim.

“Icouldn’thelpit.I’msolonely, I wanted you somuch!”

Plonplon had ceasedbarking and now came upbehind Michael, nosing hisbare backsidewith a blast of

hot,moistbreath.“Va-t’en!”The pug backed up and

started barking again, eyesbulgingwithoffense.

Unable to findanywordssuitable to the situation, hegrabbed the dog andmuffleditwithahandfulofsheet.Hegotunsteadilytohisfeet,stillholdingthesquirmingpug.

“I—” he began. “You—Imean … oh, Jesus Christ!”He leaned over and put the

dog carefully on the bed.Plonplon instantly wriggledfreeofthesheetandrushedtoLéonie, licking hersolicitously. Michael hadthoughtofgivingherthedogafter Lillie’s death, but forsome reason thishad seemedabetrayalofthepug’sformermistressandbroughtMichaelneartoweeping.

“I can’t,” he said simply.“I justcan’t.Yougotosleepnow, lass.We’ll talkabout it

later,aye?”He went out, walking

carefully, as though verydrunk, and closed the doorgently behind him. He gothalfway down the main stairbefore realizing he wasnaked. He stood there, hismind blank, watching thecolors of the Murano lampfade as the daylight grewoutside, until Paul saw himand ran up towrap him in acloak and lead him off to a

bedinoneoftheguestrooms.

***Rakoczy’s favorite

gaming club was the GoldenCockerel, and thewall in themainsalonwascoveredbyatapestry featuring one ofthese creatures, worked ingold thread, wings spread,and throat swollen as itcrowed in triumph at thewinning hand of cards laidoutbeforeit.Itwasacheerful

place, catering to a mix ofwealthymerchants and lessernobility,andtheairwasspicywiththescentsofcandlewax,powder,perfume,andmoney.

He’d thought of going tothe offices of Fraser et Cie,makingsomeexcusetospeakto Michael Murray, andmaneuvering hisway into aninquiry about thewhereabouts of the youngman’s aunt. Uponconsideration, though, he

thought such a move mightmake Murray wary—andpossibly lead towordgettingbacktothewoman,ifshewassomewhereinParis.Thatwasthe last thing he wanted tohappen.

Better, perhaps, toinstigate his inquiries from amore discreet distance. He’dlearned that Murrayoccasionally came to theCockerel, though he himselfhadneverseenhimthere.But

ifhewasknown…It took several evenings

of play, wine, andconversation before he foundCharles Pépin. Pépin was apopinjay, a reckless gambler,andamanwho liked to talk.And to drink. Hewas also agood friend of the youngwinemerchant’s.

“Oh, the nun!” he said,whenRakoczyhad—afterthesecond bottle—mentionedhavingheardthatMurrayhad

a young relative who hadrecently entered the convent.Pépin laughed, his handsomefaceflushed.

“A less likely nun I’venever seen—an arse thatwould make the archbishopofParis forget his vows, andhe’s eighty-six if he’s a day.Doesn’t speak any sort ofFrench, poor thing—the girl,notthearchbishop.NotthatIfor onewould be wanting tocarryonalotofconversation

if I had her to myself, youunderstand.… She’s Scotch;terribleaccent…”

“Scotch, you say.”Rakoczy held a cardconsideringly, then put itdown. “She is Murray’scousin—would she perhapsbe the daughter of his uncleJames?”

Pépin looked blank for amoment.

“Idon’treally—oh,yes,Ido know!” He laughed

heartily, and laid down hisown losing hand. “Dear me.Yes, she did say her father’sname was Jay-mee, the waytheScotchesdo;thatmustbeJames.”

Rakoczy felt a ripple ofanticipation go up his spine.Yes! This sense of triumphwas instantly succeeded by abreathless realization. Thegirl was the daughter of LaDameBlanche.

“I see,” he said casually.

“Andwhich convent didyousaythegirlhasgoneto?”

To his surprise, Pépingave him a suddenly sharplook.

“Why do you want toknow?”

Rakoczy shrugged,thinkingfast.

“Awager,”hesaid,withagrin.“If she isas lusciousasyou say … I’ll bet you fivehundred louis that I can gether intobedbefore she takes

herfirstvows.”Pépinscoffed.“Oh, never! She’s tasty,

butshedoesn’tknowit.Andshe’s virtuous, I’d swear it.And if you think you canseduce her inside theconvent…!”

Rakoczy lounged back inhis chair and motioned foranotherbottle.

“In that case… what doyouhavetolose?”

NextdayShe could smell the

hôpital long before the smallgroup of new postulantsreached the door. Theywalked two by two,practicing custody of theeyes, but she couldn’t help aquick glance upward at thebuilding, a three-storychateau, originally a noblehousethathad—rumorsaid—been given to Mother

Hildegarde by her father, aspart of her dowry when shejoined the church. It hadbecome a convent house andthengraduallyhadbeengivenover more and more to thecare of the sick, the nunsmoving to the new chateaubuiltinthepark.

Itwas a lovelyoldhouse—ontheoutside.Theodorofsickness,ofurineandshitandvomit, hung about it like acloyingveil, though, and she

hoped she wouldn’t vomit,too. The little postulant nextto her, SisterMiséricorde deDieu(knowntoall simplyasMercy), was as white as herveil,eyesfixedonthegroundbut obviously not seeing it:she stepped smack on a slugandgaveasmallcryofhorroras it squished under hersandal.

Joanlookedhastilyaway;she would never mastercustody of the eyes, shewas

sure. Nor yet custody ofthought.

It wasn’t the notion ofsickpeople that troubledher.She’d seen sick peoplebefore, and theywouldn’t beexpectinghertodomorethanwash and feed them; shecould manage that easily. Itwasfearofseeing thosewhowereabouttodie—forsurelytherewould be a greatmanyof those in a hospital. Andwhatmightthevoicestellher

aboutthem?As itwas, the voices had

nothing to say. Not a word,andaftera littleshebegantolose her nervousness. Shecould do this and in fact, tohersurprise,quiteenjoyedthesense of competence, thegratification of being able toease someone’s pain, givethemat leasta littleattention—and if her French madethem laugh (and it did), thatat least took their minds off

painandfearforamoment.Therewerethosewholay

under theveil ofdeath.Onlya few, though, and it seemedsomehowmuchlessshockinghere thanwhen she had seenit on Vhairi’s lad or theyoung man on the ship.Maybe it was resignation,perhaps the influence of theangels for whom the hôpitalwas named … Joan didn’tknow,but she found that shewasn’t afraid to speak to or

touchtheonessheknewweregoing todie.For thatmatter,she observed that the othersisters, even the orderlies,behaved gently toward thesepeople,anditoccurredtoherthat no particular sight wasneeded toknow that themanwith the wasting sickness,whose bones poked throughhisskin,wasnotlongforthisworld.

Touch him, said a softvoice inside her head.

Comforthim.All right, she said, taking

a deep breath. She had noidea how to comfort anyone,butshebathedhim,asgentlyasshecould,andcoaxedhimto take a few spoonsful ofporridge. Then she settledhim in his bed, straighteninghis nightshirt and the thinblanketoverhim.

“Thank you, Sister,” hesaid, and, taking her hand,kissedit.“Thankyouforyour

sweettouch.”She went back to the

postulants’ dormitory thatevening feeling thoughtful,but with a strange sense ofbeing on the verge ofdiscovering somethingimportant.

ThatnightRakoczylaywithhishead

on Madeleine’s bosom, eyesclosed,breathing thescentofherbody,feelingthewholeof

her between his palms, aslowlypulsingentityoflight.Shewasagentlegold,tracedwith veins of incandescentblue, her heart deep as lapisbeneath his ear, a livingstone. And, deep inside, herredwomb,open,soft.Refugeandsuccor.Promise.

Mélisandehadshownhimthe rudiments of sexualmagic,andhe’dreadaboutitwithgreatinterestinsomeofthe older alchemical texts.

He’d never tried it with awhore, though—and, in fact,hadn’t been trying to do itthis time. And yet it hadhappened. Was happening.He could see the miracleunfolding slowly before him,underhishands.

How odd, he thoughtdreamily, watching the tinytracesofgreenenergyspreadupward through her womb,slowly but inexorably. He’dthoughtithappenedinstantly,

that a man’s seed found itsroot in the woman and thereyou were. But that wasn’twhat was happening at all.Thereweretwotypesofseed,henowsaw.Shehadone;hefeltitplainly,abrilliantspeckoflight,glowinglikeafierce,tiny sun. His own—the tinygreen animalcula—werebeing drawn toward it, bentonimmolation.

“Happy, chéri?” shewhispered, stroking his hair.

“Didyouhaveagoodtime?”“Most happy,

sweetheart.” He wished shewouldn’t talk, but anunexpected sense oftenderness toward her madehim sit up and smile at her.She also began to sit up,reachingforthecleanraganddouching syringe, andheputa hand on her shoulder,urginghertoliebackdown.

“Don’t douche this time,ma belle,” he said. “A favor

tome.”“But—” She was

confused; usually he wasinsistent upon cleanliness.“Doyouwantmetogetwithchild?” For he had stoppedher using the wine-soakedspongebeforehand,too.

“Yes,ofcourse,”hesaid,surprised. “Did MadameFabiennenottellyou?”

Hermouthdroppedopen.“She did not. What—

why, for God’s sake?” In

agitation, she squirmed freeof his restraining hand andswung her legs out of bed,reaching for her wrapper.“You aren’t—what do youmeantodowithit?”

“Do with it?” he said,blinking. “What do youmean,dowithit?”

She had the wrapper on,pulled crookedly round hershoulders,andhadbackedupagainst the wall, handsplasteredagainstherstomach,

regardinghimwithopenfear.“You’re a magicien;

everyone knows that. Youtake newborn children anduse their blood in yourspells!”

“What?” he said, ratherstupidly. He reached for hisbreeches but changed hismind.Hegotupandwent toher instead,puttinghishandsonhershoulders.

“No,” he said, bendingdown to look her in the eye.

“No, I do no such thing.Never.”Heusedalltheforceof sincerity he couldsummon, pushing it into her,andfeltherwaveralittle,stillfearful but less certain. Hesmiledather.

“Who told you I was amagicien, for heaven’s sake?Iamaphilosophe,chérie—aninquirer into themysteriesofnature, no more. And I canswear toyou,bymyhopeofheaven”—this beingmore or

less nonexistent, but whyquibble?—“thatIhavenever,notonce,usedanythingmorethanthewaterofaman-childinanyofmyinvestigations.”

“What, little boys’ piss?”she said, diverted. He let hishandsrelaxbutkept themonhershoulders.

“Certainly. It’s the purestwateronecanfind.Collectingit is something of a chore,mind you”—she smiled atthat; good—“but the process

doesnottheslightestharmtothe infant,whowill eject thewater whether anyone has auseforitornot.”

“Oh.”Shewas beginningtorelaxalittle,butherhandswerestillpressedprotectivelyoverherbelly, as though shefelt the imminent childalready.Not yet, he thought,pulling her against him andfeeling his way gently intoher body. But soon! Hewonderedifheshouldremain

withheruntilithappened;theidea of feeling it as ithappened inside her—to bean intimate witness to thecreation of life itself! Buttherewasnotellinghowlongit might take. From theprogress of his animalcula, itcouldbeaday,eventwo.

Magic,indeed.Why do men never think

of that? he wondered. Mostmen—himself included—regarded the engendering of

babies as necessity, in thecase of inheritance, ornuisance, but this … Butthen, most men would neverknow what he now knew orseewhathehadseen.

Madeleine had begun torelax against him, her handsat last leaving her belly. Hekissedher,witharealfeelingofaffection.

“It will be beautiful,” hewhispered to her. “And onceyou are well and truly with

child,Iwillbuyyourcontractfrom Fabienne and take youaway. I will buy you ahouse.”

“A house?” Her eyeswentround.Theyweregreen,adeep,clearemerald,andhesmiled at her again, steppingback.

“Of course.Now, go andsleep, my dear. I shall comeagaintomorrow.”

She flung her armsaroundhim,andhehadsome

difficulty in extractinghimself, laughing, from herembraces.Normallyhe left awhore’s bed with no feelingsavephysicalrelief.Butwhathe had done had made aconnection with Madeleinethat he had not experiencedwith any woman saveMélisande.

Mélisande. A suddenthought ran through him likethe spark from a Leyden jar.Mélisande.

He looked hard atMadeleine, now crawlinghappily naked and white-rumpedintobed,herwrapperthrown aside. Thatbottom… the eyes, the softblond hair, the gold-white offreshcream.

“Chérie,” he said, ascasually as hemight, pullingonhisbreeches,“howoldareyou?”

“Eighteen,” she said,without hesitation. “Why,

monsieur?”“Ah. Awonderful age to

becomeamother.”Hepulledthe shirt over his head andkissed his hand to her,relieved. He had knownMélisande Robicheaux in1744.Hehadnot,infact,justcommitted incest with hisowndaughter.

It was only as he passedMadameFabienne’sparloronhiswayoutthatitoccurredtohim that Madeleine might

possibly still be hisgranddaughter. That thoughtstoppedhimshort,buthehadno time to dwell on it, forFabienne appeared in thedoorway and motioned tohim.

“A message, monsieur,”she said, and something inher voice touched his napewithacoldfinger.

“Yes?”“Maître Grenouille begs

thefavorofyourcompanyat

midnight tomorrow. In thesquarebeforeNotreDamedeParis.”

***They didn’t have to

practice custody of the eyesin the market. In fact, SisterGeorge—the stout nun whooversaw these expeditions,warned them in no uncertaintermstokeepasharpeyeoutfor short weight and uncivilprices, to say nothing of

pickpockets.“Pickpockets, Sister?”

Mercy had said, her blondeyebrows all but vanishinginto her veil. “But we arenuns—more or less,” sheadded hastily. “We havenothingtosteal!”

Sister George’s big redfacegotsomewhatredder,butshekeptherpatience.

“Normally that would betrue,” she agreed. “Butwe—or I, rather—have themoney

with which to buy our food,and once we’ve bought it,you will be carrying it. Apickpocketstealstoeat,n’est-ce pas? They don’t carewhether you have money orfood,andmostofthemaresodepraved that they wouldwillingly steal from Godhimself, letaloneacoupleofchick-headedpostulants.”

For Joan’s part, shewanted to see everything,pickpockets included. To her

delight, the market was theone she’d passed withMichael on her first day inParis. True, the sight of itbrought back the horrors anddoubtsofthatfirstday,too—but, for the moment, shepushed those aside andfollowed Sister George intothe fascinating maelstrom ofcolor,smells,andshouting.

Filingawayaparticularlyentertaining expression thatshe planned to make Sister

Philomène explain to her—Sister Philomène was a littleolderthanJoan,butpainfullyshy and with such delicateskin that she blushed like anappleattheleastexcuse—shefollowed Sister George andSister Mathilde through thefishmonger’s section, whereSister George bargainedshrewdly for a great quantityof sand dabs, scallops, tinygray translucent shrimp, andan enormous sea salmon, the

pale spring light shiftingthrough its scales in colorsthatfadedsosubtlyfrompinktobluetosilverandbackthatsomeofthemhadnonameatall—so beautiful even in itsdeath that itmadeJoancatchher breath with joy at thewonderofcreation.

“Oh, bouillabaissetonight!” said Mercy, underherbreath.“Délicieuse!”

“What is bouillabaisse?”Joanwhisperedback.

“Fishstew—you’lllikeit,I promise!” Joan had nodoubtofit;broughtupintheHighlandsduringthepoverty-stricken years following theRising, she’d been staggeredby thenovelty,deliciousness,and sheer abundance of theconvent’s food. Even onFridays,whenthecommunityfastedduring theday, supperwas simple butmouthwatering, toasted sharpcheese on nutty brown bread

withslicedapples.Luckily, the salmon was

so huge that Sister Georgearrangedfor thefishseller todeliver it to the convent,along with the other brinypurchases; thus they hadroomintheirbasketsforfreshvegetables and fruit and sopassed fromNeptune’s realmto that of Demeter. Joanhoped it wasn’t sacrilegiousto think of Greek gods, butshe couldn’t forget the book

ofmyths thatDahad read toMarsali and her when theywere young, with wonderfulhand-coloredillustrations.

Afterall,shetoldherself,youneededtoknowabouttheGreeks if you studiedmedicine. She had sometrepidation at the thought ofworking in the hospital, butGod called people to dothings, and if itwashiswill,then—

Thethoughtstoppedshort

as she caught sight of a neatdark tricorne with a curledblue feather bobbing slowlythrough the tide of people.Was it—it was! Léonie, thesister of Michael Murray’sdead wife. Moved bycuriosity, Joan glanced atSister George, who wasengrossed in a huge displayof fungus—dearGod, peopleatesuchthings?—andslippedaround a barrow billowingwithgreensalletherbs.

She meant to speak toLéonie, ask her to tellMichael that she needed totalktohim.Perhapshecouldcontrive a way to visit theconvent … But before Joancould get close enough,Léonie looked furtively overher shoulder, as thoughfearing discovery, thenducked behind a curtain thathung across the back of asmallcaravan.

Joan had seen gypsies

before, though not often. Adark-skinned man loiterednearby, talking with a groupof others; their eyes passedover her habit withoutpausing, and she sighedwithrelief. Being a nun was asgood as having a cloak ofinvisibility in mostcircumstances,shethought.

She looked round for hercompanions and saw thatSister Mathilde had beencalled into consultation

regardingabigwartylumpofsomething that looked likethe excrement of a seriouslydiseased hog. Good, shecould wait for a minutelonger.

In fact, it took very littlemore than thatbeforeLéonieslipped out from behind thecurtain, tucking somethinginto the small basket on herarm. For the first time, itstruck Joan as unusual thatsomeone like Léonie should

beshoppingwithoutaservantto push back crowds andcarry purchases—or even bein a public market. Michaelhad told her about his ownhousehold during the voyage—howMadameHortense,thecook, went to themarkets atdawntobesureofgettingthefreshestthings.Whatwouldalady like Léonie be buying,alone?

Joan slithered as best shecould through the rows of

stalls and wagons, followingthe bobbing blue feather. Asudden stop allowed her tocomeupbehindLéonie,whohadpaused by a flower stall,fingering a bunch of whitejonquils.

It occurred suddenly toJoan that she had no ideawhatLéonie’slastnamewas,but she couldn’tworry aboutpolitenessnow.

“Ah … madame?” shesaid tentatively.

“Mademoiselle, I mean?”Léonie swung round, eyeshuge and face pale. Findingherself facedwith a nun, sheblinked,confused.

“Er…it’sme,”Joansaid,diffident, resisting theimpulse to pull off her veil.“Joan MacKimmie?” It feltoddtosayit,asthough“JoanMacKimmie” were trulysomeone else. It took amoment for the name toregister, but then Léonie’s

shouldersrelaxedalittle.“Oh.” She put a hand to

her bosom and mustered asmall smile. “Michael’scousin. Of course. Ididn’t… er…How nice tosee you!” A small frownwrinkledtheskinbetweenherbrows.“Areyou…alone?”

“No,”Joansaidhurriedly.“And I mustn’t stop. I onlysawyou,andIwantedtoask—” It seemed even stupiderthanithadamomentago,but

no help for it. “Would youtell Monsieur Murray that Imust talk to him? I knowsomething—somethingimportant—that Ihave to tellhim.”

“Soeur Gregory?” SisterGeorge’s stentorian tonesboomed through the higher-pitched racket of themarket,makingJoanjump.Shecouldsee the top of SisterMathilde’s head, with itsgreat white sails, turning to

andfroinvainsearch.“Ihavetogo,”shesaidto

the astonished Léonie.“Please.Pleasetellhim!”Herheart was pounding, and notonly from the suddenmeeting. She’d been lookingatLéonie’sbasket,whereshecaught the glint of a brownglass bottle half hiddenbeneathathickbunchofwhateven Joan recognized asblackhellebores.Lovelycup-shaped flowers of an eerie

greenish-white—and deadlypoison.

She dodged back acrossthe market to arrivebreathless and apologizing atSister Mathilde’s side,wondering if … She hadn’tspent much time at all withDa’swife—butshehadheardher talking with Da as shewrote down receipts in abook, and she’d mentionedblack hellebore as somethingwomen used to make

themselves miscarry. IfLéonie werepregnant … Holy Mother ofGod, could shebewith childby Michael? The thoughtstruck her like a blow in thestomach.

No. No, she couldn’tbelieveit.Hewasstillinlovewith his wife, anyone couldsee that, and even if not,she’dswearhewasn’tthesortto … But what did she kenaboutmen,afterall?

Well,she’daskhimwhenshesawhim,shedecided,hermouth clamping tight. And’til then…Herhandwent tothe rosary at her waist andshesaidaquick,silentprayerforLéonie.Justincase.

As she was bargainingdoggedly in her execrableFrench for six aubergines(wondering meanwhile whaton earth they were for,medicine or food?), shebecame aware of someone

standing at her elbow. Ahandsomemanofmiddleage,tallerthanshewas,inawell-cutdove-graycoat.Hesmiledat her and, touching one ofthe peculiar vegetables, saidinslow,simpleFrench,“Youdon’t want the big ones.They’re tough. Get smallones,likethat.”Alongfingertapped an aubergine half thesizeoftheonesthevegetablesellerhadbeenurgingonher,and thevegetablesellerburst

into a tirade of abuse thatmade Joan step back,blinking.

Not so much because ofthe expressions being hurledather—shedidn’tunderstandonewordinten—butbecausea voice in plain English hadjust said clearly, “Tell himnottodoit.”

She felt hot and cold atthesametime.

“I … er … jesuis … um … merci

beaucoup, monsieur!” sheblurted, and, turning, ran,scrambling back betweenpilesofpapernarcissusbulbsand fragrant spikes ofhyacinth, her shoes skiddingon the slime of troddenleaves.

“Soeur Gregory!” SisterMathilde loomed up sosuddenly in front of her thatshe nearly ran into themassive nun. “What are youdoing? Where is Sister

Miséricorde?”“I … oh.” Joan

swallowed, gathering herwits. “She’s—over there.”She spoke with relief,spotting Mercy’s small headintheforefrontofacrowdbythemeat-piewagon. “I’ll gether!”sheblurted,andwalkedhastily off before SisterMathildecouldsaymore.

“Tell him not to do it.”That’s what the voice hadsaid about Charles Pépin.

What was going on? shethoughtwildly.WasM.Pépinengaged in something awfulwiththemaninthedove-graycoat?

As though thought of themanhad reminded thevoice,itcameagain.

“Tell him not to do it,”the voice repeated in herhead, with what seemed likeparticular urgency.“Tell himhemustnot!”

“HailMary,fullofgrace,

theLordiswiththee,blessedart thou among women …”Joan clutched at her rosaryand gabbled the words,feeling the blood leave herface. There he was, the maninthedove-graycoat,lookingcuriouslyatheroverastallofDutch tulips and sprays ofyellowforsythia.

She couldn’t feel thepavement under her feet butwas moving toward him. Ihave to, she thought. It

doesn’tmatterifhethinksI’mmad.…

“Don’tdoit,”sheblurted,coming face-to-face with theastonished gentleman. “Youmustn’tdoit!”

And then she turned andran,rosaryinhand,apronandveilflappinglikewings.

***Hecouldn’thelp thinking

of the cathedral as an entity.An immense version of one

of its own gargoyles,crouched over the city. Inprotectionorthreat?

NotreDamedeParisroseblack above him, solid,obliterating the light of thestars, thebeautyof thenight.Very appropriate. He’dalways thought that thechurchblockedone’ssightofGod. Nonetheless, the sightof the monstrous stonecreature made him shiver ashe passed under its shadow,

despitethewarmcloak.Perhaps it was the

cathedral’s stones themselvesthat gave him the sense ofmenace? He stopped, pausedfor a heartbeat, and thenstrodeuptothechurch’swalland pressed his palm flatagainst the cold limestone.There was no immediatesense of anything, just thecold roughness of the rock.Impulsively, he shut his eyesand tried to feelhisway into

the rock. At first, nothing.But he waited, pressing withhismind,arepeatedquestion.Areyouthere?

He would have beenterrified to receiveananswerbut was obscurelydisappointednot to.Evenso,when he finally opened hiseyes and took his handsaway, he saw a trace of bluelight, the barest trace,glowing briefly between hisknuckles. That frightened

him, and he hurried away,hiding his hands beneath theshelterofthecloak.

Surely not, he assuredhimself. He’d done thatbefore,madethelighthappenwhen he held the jewels heused for travel and said thewords over them—his ownversion of consecration, hesupposed. He didn’t know ifthewordswerenecessary,butMélisandehadused them;hewasafraidnotto.Andyet.He

had felt something here. Thesense of something heavy,inert. Nothing resemblingthought, let alone speech,thank God. By reflex, hecrossed himself, then shookhishead,rattledandirritated.

But something.Somethingimmenseandveryold. DidGod have the voiceof a stone? He was furtherunsettledby the thought.Thestones there in the chalkmine, the noise theymade—

was it afterallGod thathe’dglimpsed, there in that spacebetween?

A movement in theshadows banished all suchthoughts in an instant. Thefrog! Rakoczy’s heartclenchedlikeafist.

“Monsieur le Comte,”said an amused, gravellyvoice. “I see the years havebeenkindtoyou.”

Raymondsteppedintothestarlight, smiling. The sight

of him was disconcerting;Rakoczy had imagined thismeeting for so long that thereality seemed oddlyanticlimactic. Short, broad-shouldered, with long, loosehair that swept back from amassive forehead. A broad,almost lipless mouth.Raymondthefrog.

“Why are you here?”Rakoczyblurted.

Maître Raymond’s browswere black—surely they had

been white thirty years ago?One of them lifted inpuzzlement.

“Iwas told thatyouwerelooking for me, monsieur.”He spread his hands, thegesturegraceful.“Icame!”

“Thank you,” Rakoczysaid dryly, beginning toregain some composure. “Imeant—why are you inParis?”

“Everyone has to besomewhere,don’tthey?They

can’t be in the same place.”This should have soundedlike badinage but didn’t. Itsounded serious, like astatement of scientificprinciple,andRakoczyfounditunsettling.

“Did you come lookingforme?”heaskedboldly.Hemovedalittle, tryingtogetabetter view of the man. Hewas nearly sure that the frogappearedyoungerthanhehadwhen last seen. Surely his

flowing hair was darker, hisstepmore elastic?A spurt ofexcitement bubbled in hischest.

“For you?” The frogseemed amused for amoment, but then the lookfaded.“No.I’msearchingforalostdaughter.”

Rakoczy was surprisedanddisconcerted.

“Yours?”“Moreor less.”Raymond

seemed uninterested in

explainingfurther.Hemoveda little to one side, eyesnarrowing as he sought tomake out Rakoczy’s face inthe darkness. “You can hearstones,then,canyou?”

“I—what?”Raymond nodded at the

façadeofthecathedral.“Theydo speak. They move, too,butveryslowly.”

An icy chill shot upRakoczy’s spine at thethought of the grinning

gargoylesperchedhighabovehim and the implication thatone might at any momentchoose to spread its silentwings and hurtle down uponhim, teeth still bared incarnivorous hilarity. Despitehimself, he looked up, overhisshoulder.

“Not that fast.” The noteofamusementwasbackinthefrog’s voice. “You wouldneverseethem.Ittakesthemmillennia to move the

slightestfractionofaninch—unless of course they arepropelled ormelted.But youdon’t want to see them dothat, of course. Much toodangerous.”

This kind of talk struckhim as frivolous, andRakoczy was bothered by itbut for some reason notirritated. Troubled, with asense that there wassomething under it,something that he

simultaneously wanted toknow—and wanted verymuch to avoid knowing.Thesensation was novel, andunpleasant.

He cast caution to thewind and demanded boldly,“Whydidyounotkillme?”

Raymondgrinnedathim;Rakoczy could see the flashof teeth and felt yet anothershock: he was sure—almostsure—that the frog had hadnoteethwhenlastseen.

“If I had wanted youdead, son, you wouldn’t behere talking to me,” he said.“Iwantedyoutobeoutoftheway, that’s all; you obligedmebytakingthehint.”

“And just why did youwant me ‘out of the way’?”Had he not needed to findout, Rakcozy would havetaken offense at the man’stone.

The frog lifted oneshoulder.

“Youweresomethingofathreattothelady.”

Sheer astonishmentbrought Rakoczy to his fullheight.

“Thelady?Youmeanthewoman—LaDameBlanche?”

“They did call her that.”The frog seemed to find thenotionamusing.

It was on the tip ofRakoczy’s tongue to tellRaymond that La DameBlanche still lived, but he

hadn’tlivedaslongashehadbyblurtingouteverythingheknew—and he didn’t wantRaymond thinking that hehimselfmightbestillathreattoher.

“Whatistheultimategoalof an alchemist?” the frogsaidveryseriously.

“To transform matter,”Rakoczy repliedautomatically.

The frog’s face split in abroadamphibiangrin.

“Exactly!” he said. Andvanished.

He had vanished. Nopuffs of smoke, noillusionist’s tricks, no smellof sulfur—the frog wassimply gone. The squarestretched empty under thestarlitsky;theonlythingthatmoved was a cat that dartedmewing out of the shadowsand brushed past Rakoczy’sleg.

***Worn out with constant

walking, Michael slept likethe dead these days, withoutdreams ormotion, and wokewhen the sun came up. Hisvalet, Robert, heard him stirand came in at once, one ofthefemmesdechambreonhisheels with a bowl of coffeeandsomepastry.

He ate slowly, sufferinghimself to be brushed,shaved, and tenderly tidied

into fresh linen. Robert keptup a soothingmurmur of thesort of conversation thatdoesn’t require response andsmiled encouragingly whenpresenting themirror. Ratherto Michael’s surprise, theimage in the mirror lookedquite normal. Hair neatlyclubbed—he wore his own,withoutpowder—suitmodestin cut but of the highestquality. Robert hadn’t askedhimwhatherequiredbuthad

dressed him for an ordinarydayofbusiness.Hesupposedthatwasallright.What,afterall, did clothes matter? Itwasn’tas though therewasacostume de rigueur forcalling upon the sister ofone’sdeceasedwife,whohadcome uninvited into one’sbedinthemiddleofthenight.

Hehadspent the last twodays trying to think of somewaynever to seeor speak toLéonie again, but, really,

therewasnohelpforit.He’dhavetoseeher.

Butwhatwashetosaytoher,hewondered,ashemadehis way through the streetstoward the house whereLéonie lived with an agedaunt, Eugenie Galantine. Hewished he could talk thesituation over with SisterJoan, but that wouldn’t beappropriate, even were sheavailable.

He’d hoped that walking

wouldgivehimtimetocomeup at least with a pointd’appui, if not an entirestatement of principle, butinstead he found himselfobsessively counting theflagstonesofthemarketashecrossedit,countingthebongsof the public horologe as itstruck the hour of three, and—forlackofanythingelse—countinghisownfootstepsashe approached her door. Sixhundred and thirty-seven, six

hundredandthirty-eight…As he turned into the

street, though, he abruptlystoppedcounting.Hestoppedwalking,too,foraninstant—thenbegantorun.Somethingwas wrong at the house ofMadameGalantine.

He pushed his waythrough the crowd ofneighbors and vendorsclustered near the steps andseized the butler, whom heknew,byasleeve.

“What?” he barked.“What’s happened?” Thebutler,atall,cadaverousmannamed Hubert, was plainlyagitated but settled a bit onseeingMichael.

“I don’t know, sir,” hesaid, thougha sideways slideofhiseyesmade it clear thathe did. “MademoiselleLéonie … she’s ill. Thedoctor…”

Hecouldsmelltheblood.Not waiting for more, he

pushed Hubert aside andsprinted up the stairs, callingfor Madame Eugenie,Léonie’saunt.

Madame Eugenie poppedoutofabedroom,hercapandwrapper neat in spite of theuproar.

“Monsieur Michel!” shesaid, blocking him fromentering the room. “It’s allright, but you must not goin.”

“Yes, I must.” His heart

was thundering in his ears,andhishandsfeltcold.

“You may not,” she saidfirmly. “She’s ill. It isn’tproper.”

“Proper?Ayoungwomantries to make away withherselfandyoutellmeitisn’tproper?”

A maid appeared in thedoorway, a basket piledwithbloodstained linen in herarms, but the look of shockonMadame Eugenie’s broad

facewasmorestriking.“Make away with

herself?” The old lady’smouth hung open for amoment, then snapped shutlike a turtle’s. “Why wouldyou thinksucha thing?”Shewas regarding him withconsiderable suspicion. “Andwhat are you doing here, forthatmatter?Whotoldyoushewasill?”

A glimpse of aman in adark robe, who must be the

doctor, decided Michael thatlittle was to be gained byengaging further withMadame Eugenie. He tookher gently but firmly by theelbows, picked her up—sheuttered a small shriek ofsurprise—andsetheraside.

He went in and shut thebedroomdoorbehindhim.

“Who are you?” Thedoctor looked up, surprised.He was wiping out a freshlyused bleeding-bowl, and his

case lay open on theboudoir’s settee. Léonie’sbedroommustliebeyond;thedoor was open, and Michaelcaught a glimpse of the footofabedbutcouldnotseethebed’sinhabitant.

“Itdoesn’tmatter.Howisshe?”

The doctor eyed himnarrowly,butafteramomentnodded.

“Shewill live.As for thechild …” He made an

equivocalmotionofthehand.“I’vedonemybest.Shetookagreatdealofthe—”

“The child?” The floorshiftedunderhisfeet,andthedream of the night beforefloodedhim,thatqueersenseofsomethinghalfwrong,halffamiliar.Itwasthefeelingofasmall,hardswellingpressedagainsthisbum;that’swhatitwas. Lillie had not been fargone with child when shedied, but he remembered all

too well the feeling of awoman’s body in earlypregnancy.

“It’s yours? I beg yourpardon,Ishouldn’task.”Thedoctorputawayhisbowlandfleamandshookouthisblackvelvetturban.

“Iwant—Ineedtotalktoher.Now.”

The doctor opened hismouth in automatic protestbut thenglanced thoughtfullyoverhisshoulder.

“Well … you must becarefulnotto—”ButMichaelwas already inside thebedroom, standing by thebed.

She was pale. They hadalways been pale, Lillie andLéonie,withthesoftglowofcream and marble. This wasthepalenessofafrog’sbelly,ofa rotting fish,blanchedontheshore.

Hereyeswereringedwithblack,sunkinherhead.They

rested on his face, flat,expressionless, as still as theringless hands that lay limponthecoverlet.

“Who?” he said quietly.“Charles?”

“Yes.” Her voice was asdull as her eyes, and hewonderedwhether the doctorhaddruggedher.

“Wasithisidea—totrytofoist thechildoffonme?Oryours?”

She did look away then,

andherthroatmoved.“His.” The eyes came

back to him. “I didn’t wantto, Michel. Not—not that Ifind you disgusting, notthat…”

“Merci,”hemuttered,butshe went on, disregardinghim.

“You were Lillie’shusband. I didn’t envy heryou,”shesaidfrankly,“but Ienviedwhatyouhadtogether.It couldn’t be like that

between you and me, and Ididn’t like betraying her.But”—her lips, already pale,compressed to invisibility—“I didn’t have muchchoice.”

He was obliged to admitthat she hadn’t. Charlescouldn’tmarry her; he had awife. Bearing an illegitimatechild was not a fatal scandalin high court circles, but theGalantines were of theemerging bourgeoisie, where

respectability counted foralmost as much as money.Finding herself pregnant, shewould have had twoalternatives: find acomplaisanthusbandquickly,or…He triednot tosee thatone of her hands restedlightlyacross theslightswellofherstomach.

Thechild…Hewonderedwhathewouldhavedonehadshecometohimandtoldhimthetruth,askedhimtomarry

her for the sake of the child.But she hadn’t. And shewasn’taskingnow.

It would be best—or atleast easiest—were she tolosethechild.Andshemightyet.

“Icouldn’twait,yousee,”shesaid,asthoughcontinuingaconversation.“Iwouldhavetried to find someone else,butIthoughtsheknew.She’dtellyouas soonas shecouldmanage to see you. So I had

to,yousee,beforeyoufoundout.”

“She? Who? Tell mewhat?”

“The nun,” Léonie said,and sigheddeeply, as thoughlosing interest. “She sawmein the market and rushed upto me. She said she had totalk to you—that she hadsomething important to tellyou. I saw her look into mybasket, though, and herface … thought she must

realize…”Her eyelids were

fluttering, whether fromdrugs or fatigue, he couldn’ttell. She smiled faintly, butnot athim; she seemed tobelooking at something a longwayoff.

“So funny,” shemurmured. “Charles said itwouldsolveeverything—thatthe comte would pay himsuch a lot for her, it wouldsolve everything. But how

canyousolveababy?”Michael jerked as though

herwordshadstabbedhim.“What?Payforwhom?”“Thenun.”He grabbed her by the

shoulders.“Sister Joan? What do

youmean,payforher?WhatdidCharlestellyou?”

Shemade awhiny soundofprotest.Michaelwantedtoshake her hard enough tobreak her neck but forced

himselftowithdrawhishand.She settled into the pillowlike a bladder losing air,flattening under thebedclothes. Her eyes wereclosed, but he bent down,speakingdirectlyintoherear.

“The comte, Léonie.What is his name? Tell mehisname.”

A faint frown rippled theflesh of her brow, thenpassed.

“St. Germain,” she

murmured, scarcely loudenough to be heard. “TheComteSt.Germain.”

***He went instantly to

Rosenwald and, by dint ofbadgeringandthepromiseofextra payment, got him tofinish the engraving on thechalice at once. Michaelwaited impatiently while itwas done and, scarcelypausingforthecupandpaten

to be wrapped in brownpaper, flung money to thegoldsmith and made for lesCouvent des Anges, almostrunning.

With great difficulty, herestrained himself whilemaking the presentation ofthe chalice, and with greathumility,heinquiredwhetherhe might ask the great favorofseeingSisterGregory, thathemightconveyamessagetoher from her family in the

Highlands. Sister Eustacialooked surprised andsomewhat disapproving—postulantswere not normallypermitted visits—but afterall … in view of MonsieurMurray’s and MonsieurFraser’s great generosity totheconvent…perhapsjustafewmoments, in thevisitor’sparlor,andinthepresenceofSisterherself…

***

He turned and blinkedonce, his mouth opening alittle.Helookedshocked.Didshe look so different in herrobeandveil?

“It’s me,” Joan said, andtried tosmile reassuringly.“Imean…stillme.”

His eyes fixed on herface, and he let out a deepbreathandsmiled,asifshe’dbeen lost and he’d foundheragain.

“Aye, so it is,” he said

softly. “I was afraid it wasSister Gregory. I mean,the … er …” He made asketchy, awkward gestureindicatinghergrayrobesandwhitepostulant’sveil.

“It’s only clothes,” shesaid, and put a hand to herchest,defensive.

“Well, no,” he said,lookingherovercarefully,“Idinna think it is, quite. It’smorelikeasoldier’suniform,no? Ye’re doing your job

when ye wear it, andeverybody as sees it kenswhat ye are and knowswhatyedo.”

KenswhatIam.IsupposeIshouldbepleaseditdoesn’tshow, she thought, a littlewildly.

“Well.…aye, Isuppose.”Shefingeredtherosaryatherbelt.Shecoughed.“Inaway,atleast.”

Ye’ve got to tell him. Itwasn’toneofthevoices,just

the voice of her ownconscience, but that wasdemanding enough. Shecould feel her heart beating,so hard that she thought thebumping must show throughthefrontofherhabit.

He smiled encouraginglyather.

“Léonie told me yewantedtoseeme.”

“Michael…can I tell yesomething?”sheblurted.

He seemed surprised.

“Well, of course ye can,” hesaid.“Whyevernot?”

“Whyever not,” she said,half under her breath. Sheglancedoverhisshoulder,butSisterEustaciawasonthefarsideof theroom,talkingtoavery young, frightened-looking French girl and herparents.

“Well, it’s like this, see,”she said, in a determinedvoice.“Ihearvoices.”

She stole a look at him,

buthedidn’tappearshocked.Notyet.

“Inmyhead,Imean.”“Aye?” He sounded

cautious. “Um … what dotheysay,then?”

She realized she washolding her breath, and let alittleofitout.

“Ah … different things.Buttheynowandthentellmesomething’sgoingtohappen.More often, they tell me Ishould say thus-and-so to

someone.”“Thus-and-so,” he

repeatedattentively,watchingher face. “What … sort ofthus-and-so?”

“I wasna expecting theSpanish Inquisition,” shesaid, a little testily. “Does itmatter?”

Hismouthtwitched.“Well, I dinna ken, now,

do I?” he pointed out. “Itmightgiveaclueastowho’stalkin’toye,mightitnot?Or

doyealreadyknowthat?”“No, I don’t,” she

admitted, and felt a suddenlessening of tension. “I—Iwas worrit—a bit—that itmight be demons. But itdoesna really … well, theydinna tellmewicked sorts ofthings. Just … more likewhen something’s going tohappen to a person. Andsometimes it’s no a goodthing—but sometimes it is.There was wee Annie

MacLaren,herwi’abigbellybythethirdmonth,andbysixlookin’asthoughshe’dburst,and she was frightened shewas goin’ to die come hertime, likeherainmotherdid,wi’ababetoobigtobeborn—I mean, really frightened,not just like all women are.AndImetherbySt.Ninian’sSpring one day, and one ofthe voices said to me, ‘TellheritwillbeasGodwillsandshewillbedeliveredsafelyof

ason.’”“Andyedidtellherthat?”“Yes. I didna say how I

knew, but I must havesounded like I did know,because her poor face gotbrightallofasudden,andshegrabbed on tomy hands andsaid, ‘Oh! From your lips toGod’sear!’”

“And was she safelydeliveredofason?”

“Aye—and a daughter,too.” Joan smiled,

remembering the glow onAnnie’sface.

Michael glanced aside atSister Eustacia, who wasbidding farewell to the newpostulant’s family. The girlwaswhite-facedandtearsrandown her cheeks, but sheclung to Sister Eustacia’ssleeve as though it were alifeline.

“I see,” he said slowly,and looked back at Joan. “Isthatwhy—isitthevoicestold

yetobeanun,then?”She blinked, surprised by

his apparent acceptance ofwhatshe’dtoldhimbutmoresobythequestion.

“Well… no. They neverdid. Ye’d think they wouldhave,wouldn’tye?”

Hesmiledalittle.“Maybeso.”Hecoughed,

thenlookedup,a littleshyly.“It’s no my business, butwhatdidmakeyewant tobeanun?”

She hesitated, but whynot? She’d already told himthehardestbit.

“Because of the voices. Ithought maybe—maybe Iwouldna hear them in here.Or … if I still did, maybesomebody—a priest, maybe?—could tell me what theywere and what I should doaboutthem.”

Sister Eustacia wascomfortingthenewgirl,half-sunkononekneetobringher

big,homely,sweetfaceclosetothegirl’s.Michaelglancedat them, then back at Joan,oneeyebrowraised.

“I’m guessing ye havenatold anyone yet,” he said.“Did ye reckon ye’d practiceonmefirst?”

Herownmouthtwitched.“Maybe.” His eyes were

darkbuthadasortofwarmthto them, as if they drew itfromtheheatofhishair.Shelookeddown;herhandswere

pleating the edge of herblouse, which had comeuntucked. “It’s no just that,though.”

Hemadethesortofnoiseinhisthroatthatmeant,“Aye,then, go on.” Why didn’tFrench people do like that?she wondered. So mucheasier. But she pushed thethoughtaside;she’dmadeuphermindtotellhim,andnowwasthetimetodoit.

“I told ye because—that

man,” she blurted. “TheComte.” He squinted at her.“TheComteSt.Germain?”

“Well, I dinna ken hisname, now, do I?” shesnapped. “But when I sawhim, one of the voices popsup and says tome, ‘Tell himnottodoit.Tellhimhemustnot.’”

“Itdid?”“Aye, and it was verra

firm about it. I mean—theyare, usually. It’s no just an

opinion, take it or leave it.But this one truly meant it.”She spread her hands,helplesstoexplainthefeelingof dread and urgency. Sheswallowed.

“Andthen…yourfriend.Monsieur Pépin. The firsttime I saw him, one o’ thevoices said ‘Tell him not todoit.’”

Michael’s thick redeyebrowsdrewtogether.

“D’ye think it’s the same

thing they’renotsupposed todo?” He sounded startled.“Well,Idon’tknow,now,doI?” she said, a littleexasperated. “The voicesdidn’tsay.ButIsawthat themanontheshipwasgoingtodie,andIdidnasayanything,becauseIcouldn’tthinkwhatto say. And then he did die,andmaybe hewouldn’t haveifI’dspoken…soI—well,Ithought I’d best saysomethingtosomeone.”

He thoughtabout that fora moment, then noddeduncertainly.

“Aye. All right. I’ll—well, I dinna kenwhat to doabout it, either, to be honest.ButI’lltalktothembothandI’ll have that inmymind, somaybe I’ll think ofsomething. D’ye want me totellthem,‘Don’tdoit’?”

She grimaced and lookedat Sister Eustacia. Therewasn’tmuchtime.

“Ialready told thecomte.Just…maybe. If ye think itmight help. Now—” Herhand darted under her apronandshepassedhimtheslipofpaper, fast. “We’re onlyallowed to write to ourfamilies twice a year,” shesaid,loweringhervoice.“ButIwantedMamtoknowIwasall right. Could ye see shegetsthat,please?And…andmaybetellherabit,yourself,that I’m weel and—and

happy. Tell her I’m happy,”sherepeated,morefirmly.

Sister Eustacia was nowstanding by the door,emanating an intent to comeand tell them itwas time forMichaeltoleave.

“I will,” he said. Hecouldn’t touch her, he knewthat, so bowed instead andbowed deeply to SisterEustacia, who came towardthem,lookingbenevolent.

“I’ll come toMass at the

chapel on Sundays, how’sthat?”hesaidrapidly.“IfI’vealetterfromyourmam,oryehavetospeaktome,giemeawee roll of the eyes orsomething—I’ll figuresomethingout.”

***Twenty-four hours later,

Sister Gregory, postulant inthe Convent of Angels,regarded the bum of a largecow. The cow in question

wasnamedMirabeauandwasof uncertain temper, asevidenced by the nervouslylashingtail.

“She’s kicked three of usthisweek,” saidSisterAnne-Joseph, eyeing the cowresentfully. “And spilt themilk twice. Sister Jeanne-Mariewasmostupset.”

“Well, we canna havethat, now, can we?” Joanmurmured in English.“N’inquiétez-vous pas,” she

added in French, hoping thatwas at least somewhatgrammatical.“Letmedoit.”

“Better you than me,”Sister Anne-Joseph said,crossingherself,andvanishedbeforeSisterJoanmightthinkbetteroftheoffer.

Aweek spentworking inthe cowshedwas intended aspunishment for her flightybehavior in the marketplace,but Joan was grateful for it.There was nothing better for

steadying the nerves thancows.

Granted, the convent’scowswere not quite like hermother’s sweet-tempered,shaggy redHielandcoos,butifyoucame rightdown to it,acowwasacow,andevenaFrench-speaking wee besomlikethepresentMirabeauwasno match for JoanMacKimmie, who’d drivenkinetoandfromtheshielingsforyearsandfedhermother’s

kine in the byre beside thehousewithsweethayandtheleavingsfromsupper.

With that in mind, shecircled Mirabeauthoughtfully, eyeing thesteadily champing jaws andthe long slick of blackish-green drool that hung downfrom slack pink lips. Shenodded once, slipped out ofthe cowshed, and made herwaydownthealléebehindit,picking what she could find.

Mirabeau, presented with abouquetoffreshgrasses, tinydaisies, and—delicacy of alldelicacies—fresh sorrel,bulged her eyes half out ofherhead,openedhermassivejaw, and inhaled the sweetstuff.Theominoustailceasedits lashing and the massivecreature stood as if turned tostone, aside from theecstaticallygrindingjaws.

Joan sighed insatisfaction, sat down, and,

resting her head onMirabeau’s monstrous flank,got down to business. Hermind, released, took up thenextworryoftheday.

Had Michael spoken tohis friend Pépin? And if so,had he told him what she’dsaid,orjustaskedwhetherhekent theComteSt.Germain?Becauseif“tellhimnottodoit”referredtothesamething,then plainly the two menmust be acquent with each

other.Shehadgotthusfarinher

own ruminations whenMirabeau’s tail began toswitch again. She hurriedlystripped the last of the milkfrom Mirabeau’s teats andsnatchedthebucketoutoftheway, standing up in a hurry.Then she saw what haddisturbedthecow.

Themaninthedove-graycoatwasstandinginthedoortotheshed,watchingher.She

hadn’t noticed before, in themarket, but he had ahandsome dark face, thoughrather hard about the eyes,andwith a chin that brookedno opposition. He smiledpleasantlyather,though,andbowed.

“Mademoiselle. I mustaskyou,please,tocomewithme.”

***Michael was in the

warehouse, stripped to hisshirtsleeves and sweating inthe hot, wine-headyatmosphere, when Jaredappeared,lookingdisturbed.

“What is it, cousin?”Michael wiped his face on atowel, leaving black streaks;the crew was clearing theracks on the southeast wall,and there were years of filthandcobwebsbehindthemostancientcasks.

“Ye haven’t got thatwee

nun in your bed, have ye,Michael?” Jared lifted abeetlinggraybrowathim.

“HaveIwhat?”“I’ve just had a message

from theMother Superior ofleCouventdesAnges,sayingthat one Sister Gregoryappears to have beenabductedfromtheircowshed,andwantingtoknowwhetheryou might possibly haveanything to do with thematter.”

Michael stared at hiscousin for amoment, unabletotakethisin.

“Abducted?” he saidstupidly. “Who would bekidnapping a nun? Whatfor?”

“Well,now,thereyehaveme.” Jared was carryingMichael’s coat over his armandat thispointhanded it tohim. “But maybe best ye gototheconventandfindout.”

***“Forgive me, Mother,”

Michael said carefully.MotherHildegarde looked asthough a breath would makeher roll across the floor,wizened as a winter apple.“Didyethink…isitpossiblethat Sister J—Sister Gregorymighthave…leftofherownaccord?”

The old nun gave him alook that revised his opinionof her state of health

instantly.“Wedid,” she saiddryly.

“It happens. However”—sheraised a sticklike finger—“one:thereweresignsofaconsiderable struggle in thecowshed. A full bucket ofmilk not merely spilt butapparently thrown atsomething, the mangeroverturned, the door leftopen, and two of the cowsescaped into the herbgarden.” Another finger.

“Two: had Sister Gregoryexperienced doubt regardingher vocation, she was quitefreetoleavetheconventafterspeaking with me, and sheknewthat.”

Onemore finger, and theold nun’s black eyes boredinto his. “And three: had shefelt it necessary to leavesuddenly and withoutinforming us, where wouldshe go? To you, MonsieurMurray. She knows no one

elseinParis,doesshe?”“I—well, no, not really.”

He was flustered, almoststammering, confusion and aburgeoning alarm for Joanmakingitdifficulttothink.

“But you have not seenher since you brought us thechalice and paten—and Ithank you and your cousinwith the deepest sentimentsof gratitude, monsieur—which would be yesterdayafternoon?”

“No.”Heshookhishead,trying to clear it. “No,Mother.”

Mother Hildegardenodded, her lips nearlyinvisible, pressed togetheramidthelinesofherface.

“Did she say anything toyou on that occasion?Anything thatmightassistusindiscoveringher?”

“I—well …” Jesus,should he tell her what Joanhadsaidabout thevoicesshe

heard? It couldn’t haveanything to do with this,surely,anditwasnahissecretto share. On the other hand,Joan had said she meant totellMotherHildegarde aboutthem…

“You’dbettertellme,myson.” The reverend mother’svoice was somewherebetween resignation andcommand.“Iseeshetoldyousomething.”

“Well, she did, then,

Mother,” he said, rubbing ahand over his face indistraction. “But I canna seehow it has anything to do—shehearsvoices,”heblurted,seeing Mother Hildegarde’seyesnarrowdangerously.

Theeyeswentround.“Shewhat?”“Voices,” he said

helplessly. “They come andsay things to her. She thinksmaybethey’reangels,butshedoesn’t know. And she can

see when folk are going todie. Sometimes,” he addeddubiously. “I don’t knowwhethershecanalwayssay.”

“Par le sang sacré deJésus Christ,” the old nunsaid, sitting up straight as anoak sapling. “Why did shenot—well, never mind aboutthat. Does anyone else knowthis?”

He shook his head. “Shewas afraid to tell anyone.That’swhy—well,onereason

why—she came to theconvent. She thought youmightbelieveher.”

“I might,” MotherHildegarde said dryly. Sheshook her head rapidly,making her veil flap. “NomdeDieu!Whydidhermothernottellmethis?”

“Her mother?” Michaelsaidstupidly.

“Yes! She brought me aletter from her mother, verykind, asking after my health

and recommending Joan tome—but surely her motherwouldhaveknown!”

“Idon’tthinkshe—wait.”He remembered Joan fishingout the carefully folded notefrom her pocket. “The lettershe brought—it was fromClaire Fraser. That’s the oneyoumean?”

“Ofcourse!”He took a deep breath, a

dozen disconnected piecesfalling suddenly into a

pattern.He clearedhis throatandraisedatentativefinger.

“One, Mother: ClaireFraser is the wife of Joan’sstepfather. But she’s notJoan’smother.”

The sharp black eyesblinkedonce.

“And two: my cousinJared tells me that ClaireFraser was known as a—aWhite Lady, when she livedinParismanyyearsago.”

Mother Hildegarde

clickedhertongueangrily.“She was no such thing.

Stuff!But it is truethat therewas a common rumor to thateffect,” she admittedgrudgingly.Shedrummedherfingersonthedesk;theywereknobbed with age butsurprisingly nimble, and heremembered that MotherHildegardewasamusician.

“Mother…”“Yes?”“I don’t know if it has

anythingtodo—doyouknowofamancalledtheComteSt.Germain?”

The old nun was alreadythe color of parchment; atthis, she went white as boneand her fingers gripped theedgeofthedesk.

“Ido,”shesaid.“Tellme—and quickly—what he hastodowithSisterGregory.”

***Joan gave the very solid

dooronelastkick,forform’ssake, then turned andcollapsed with her backagainst it, panting. The roomwas huge, extending acrossthe entire top floor of thehouse, though pillars andjoists here and there showedwhere walls had beenknocked down. It smelledpeculiar and looked evenmorepeculiar.

“BlessedMichael,protectme,” she whispered to

herself, reverting to theGaelicinheragitation.Therewas a very fancy bed in onecorner, piled with featherpillows and bolsters, withwrithing corner posts andheavy swags and curtains ofcloth embroidered in whatlooked like gold and silverthread. Did the comte—he’dtold her his name, or at leasthis title, when she asked—haul young women up hereforwicked ends on a regular

basis? For surely he hadn’tset up this establishmentsolely in anticipation of herarrival—theareanearthebedwas equipped with all kindsof solid, shiny furniturewithmarbletopsandalarminggiltfeet that looked like they’dcome off some kind of beastor bird with great curvingclaws.

He’d toldher in themostmatter-of-fact way that hewasasorcerer,too,andnotto

touch anything. She crossedherself and averted her gazefrom the table with thenastiest-looking feet; maybehe’d charmed the furniture,anditcametolifeandwalkedroundafterdark.Thethoughtmadehermovehastilyoff tothe farther end of the room,rosary clutched tight in onehand.

Thissideoftheroomwasscarcely less alarming, but atleast it didn’t look as though

any of the big colored glassballsandjarsandtubescouldmove on their own. It waswhere the worst smells werecoming from, though:something that smelled likeburnt hair and treacle, andsomething else very sharpthat curled the hairs in yournose, like it did whensomeone dug out a jakes forthesaltpeter.But therewas awindow near the long tablewhere all this sinister stuff

waslaidout,andshewenttothisatonce.

The big river—theSeine,Michael had called it—wasright there, and the sight ofboats and people made herfeel a bit steadier. She put ahand on the table to leancloserbutsetitonsomethingstickyandjerkeditback.Sheswallowed and leaned inmore gingerly. The windowwas barred on the inside.Glancing round, she saw that

alltheotherswere,too.What in the name of the

Blessed Virgin did that manexpect would try to get in?Goosefleshracedrightupthecurveofherspineandspreaddown her arms, herimagination instantlyconjuring a vision of flyingdemons hovering over thestreet in the night, beatingleathery wings against thewindow. Or—dear Lord inheaven!—was it to keep the

furniturein?There was a fairly

normal-looking stool; shesank down on this and,closinghereyes,prayedwithgreat fervor. After a bit, sheremembered to breathe, andafterafurtherbit,begantobeable to think again,shudderingonlyoccasionally.

He hadn’t threatened her.Nor had he hurt her, really,just put a hand over hermouth and his other arm

roundherbodyandpulledheralong, then boosted her intohis coach with a shockinglyfamiliar hand under herbottom,thoughithadn’tbeendone with any sense that hewaswantingtointerferewithher.

In the coach, he’dintroduced himself,apologized briefly for theinconvenience—inconvenience? The cheekofhim—andthenhadgrasped

bothherhands inhis,staringintently into her face as heclasped them tighter andtighter.He’draisedherhandsto his face, so close she’dthought he meant to smellthem or kiss them, but thenhad let go, his brow deeplyfurrowed.

He’d ignored all herquestions and her insistenceupon being returned to theconvent. In fact, he almostseemed to forget she was

there, leaving her huddled inthecorneroftheseatwhilehethought intently aboutsomething,lipspursinginandout.And then he had luggedher up here, told her brieflythat she wouldn’t be hurt,added the bit about being asorcererinaveryoffhandsortofaway,andlockedherin!

She was terrified, andindignant, too. But now thatshe’dcalmeddownaweebit,she thought that she wasn’t

really afraid ofhim, and thatseemed odd. Surely sheshouldbe?

But she’d believed himwhenhesaidhemeanthernoharm. He hadn’t threatenedher or tried to frighten her.But if that was true…whatdidhewantofher?

He likely wants to knowwhatyemeantby rushingupto him in the market andtelling him not to do it, hercommon sense—lamentably

absent to this point—remarked.

“Oh,” she said aloud.That made some sense.Naturally, he’d be curiousaboutthat.

She got up again andexplored the room, thinking.She couldn’t tell him anymore than she had, though;thatwas the thing.Wouldhebelieveher,aboutthevoices?Even if so, he’d try to findout more, and there wasn’t

any more to find out. Whatthen?

Don’t wait about to see,advisedhercommonsense.

Having already come tothis conclusion, she didn’tbother replying. She’d founda heavy marble mortar andpestle; that might do.Wrapping the mortar in herapron, she went to thewindow that overlooked thestreet. She’d break the glass,then shriek ’til she got

someone’s attention.Even sohigh up, she thought,someone would hear. Pity itwasaquietstreet.But—

She stiffened like a birddog. A coach was stoppedoutside one of the housesopposite, and MichaelMurraywasgettingoutof it!Hewasjustputtingonhishat—no mistaking that flamingredhair.

“Michael!”sheshoutedatthe top of her lungs. But he

didn’t look up; the soundwouldn’t pierce glass. Sheswung the cloth-wrappedmortar at the window, but itbounced off the bars with aringing clang! She took adeepbreathandabetteraim;this time, she hit one of thepanes and cracked it.Encouraged, she tried again,with all the strength ofmusculararmsandshoulders,and was rewarded with asmall crash, a shower of

glass, and a rush of mud-scentedairfromtheriver.

“Michael!” But he haddisappeared.Aservant’s faceshowed briefly in the opendoor of the house opposite,then vanished as the doorclosed.Througharedhazeoffrustration, she noticed theswag of black crepe hangingfrom the knob. Who wasdead?

***

Charles’s wife, Eulalie,was in the small parlor,surrounded by a huddle ofwomen.Allofthemturnedtosee who had come, many ofthem lifting theirhandkerchiefs automaticallyin preparation for a freshoutbreakoftears.Allofthemblinked at Michael, thenturned to Eulalie, as thoughforanexplanation.

Eulalie’s eyes were redbutdry.Shelookedasthough

she had been dried in anoven, all the moisture andcolor sucked out of her, herface paper-white and drawntightoverherbones.She,too,looked at Michael, butwithout much interest. Hethought she was too muchshocked for anything tomatter much. He knew howshefelt.

“Monsieur Murray,” shesaid tonelessly, as he bowedoverherhand. “Howkindof

youtocall.”“I … offer my

condolences, madame, mineand my cousin’s. Ihadn’t … heard. Of yourgrievousloss.”Hewasalmoststuttering, trying to grasp thereality of the situation.Whatthe devil had happened toCharles?

Eulalie’smouthtwisted.“Grievous loss,” she

repeated. “Yes. Thank you.”Then her dull self-absorption

cracked a little and shelooked at him more sharply.“Youhadn’theard.Youmean—you didn’t know? YoucametoseeCharles?”

“Er… yes,madame,” hesaid awkwardly.A couple ofthe women gasped, butEulalie was already on herfeet.

“Well, youmight aswellsee him, then,” she said, andwalked out of the room,leaving him with no choice

buttofollowher.“They’ve cleaned him

up,” she remarked, openingthe door to the large parloracross the hall. She mighthave been talking about amessy domestic incident inthekitchen.

Michael thought it mustinfacthavebeenverymessy.Charles lay on the largedining table, this adornedwith a cloth and wreaths ofgreenery and flowers. A

woman clad in gray wassitting by the table, weavingmore wreaths from a basketof leaves and grasses; sheglanced up, her eyes goingfrom Eulalie to Michael andback.

“Leave,”saidEulaliewitha flip of the hand, and thewoman got up at once andwent out. Michael saw thatshe’d been making a wreathof laurel leaves and had thesudden absurd thought that

she meant to crown Charleswith it, in the manner of aGreekhero.

“He cut his throat,”Eulalie said. “The coward.”She spoke with an eeriecalmness, and Michaelwonderedwhatmighthappenwhen the shock thatsurrounded her began todissipate.

Hemadearespectfulsortof noise in his throat and,touchingherarmgently,went

past her to look down at hisfriend.

“Tellhimnottodoit.”Thedeadmandidn’tlook

peaceful.Therewere linesofstress inhiscountenance thathadn’tyet smoothedout, andhe appeared to be frowning.The undertaker’s people hadcleanedthebodyanddressedhiminaslightlywornsuitofdark blue; Michael thoughtthat itwas probably the onlythinghe’downed thatwas in

anywayappropriateinwhichtoappeardead, and suddenlymissed his friend’s frivolitywith a surge that broughtunexpectedtearstohiseyes.

“Tell him not to do it.”Hehadn’tcomeintime.IfI’dcome right away, when shetold me—would it havestoppedhim?

Hecouldsmelltheblood,a rusty, sickly smell thatseeped through the freshnessoftheflowersandleaves.The

undertaker had tied a whiteneckcloth for Charles—he’dused an old-fashioned knot,nothing that Charles himselfwould have worn for amoment. The black stitchesshowed above it, though, thewoundharshagainstthedeadman’slividskin.

His own shock wasbeginning to fray, and stabsof guilt and anger pokedthroughitlikeneedles.

“Coward?”hesaidsoftly.

He didn’t mean it as aquestion, but it seemedmorecourteous to say it that way.Eulalie snorted, and, lookingup, Michael met the fullcharge of her eyes. No, notshockedanylonger.

“You’d know, wouldn’tyou,” she said, and it wasn’tatallaquestion, thewayshesaidit.“Youknewaboutyourslut of a sister-in-law, didn’tyou?AndBabette?”Her lipscurled away from the name.

“Hisothermistress?”“I—no.Imean…Léonie

told me yesterday. That waswhy I came to talk toCharles.” Well, he wouldcertainly have mentionedLéonie.Andhewasn’tgoinganywherenearthementionofBabette, whom he’d knownabout for quite some time.But, Jesus, what did thewoman think he could havedoneaboutit?

“Coward,” she said,

looking down at Charles’sbody with contempt. “Hemade a mess of everything—everything!—and thencouldn’t deal with it, so herunsoffandleavesmealone,withchildren,penniless!”

“Tellhimnottodoit.”Michael looked to see if

thiswasanexaggeration,butit wasn’t. She was burningnow,butwithfearasmuchasanger, her frozen calm quitevanished.

“The … house …?” hebegan, with a rather vaguewave around the expensive,stylishroom.Heknewitwasher family house; she’dbroughtittothemarriage.

Shesnorted.“Helostitinacardgame

last week,” she said bitterly.“IfI’mlucky,thenewownerwill let me bury him beforewehavetoleave.”

“Ah.” The mention ofcardgamesjoltedhimbackto

anawarenessofhisreasonforcoming here. “I wonder,madame, do you know anacquaintance of Charles’s—the Comte St. Germain?” Itwascrude,buthehadn’ttimeto thinkof a gracefulway tocometoit.

Eugenia blinked,nonplussed.

“Thecomte?Whydoyouwant to know about him?”Her expression sharpenedintoeagerness.“Doyouthink

heowesCharlesmoney?”“I don’t know, but I’ll

certainly find out for you,”Michael promised her. “IfyoucantellmewheretofindMonsieurleComte.”

She didn’t laugh, but hermouthquirked inwhatmightin another mood have beenhumor.

“He lives across thestreet.” She pointed towardthewindow. “In that bigpileof—whereareyougoing?”

But Michael was alreadythroughthedoorandintothehallway, bootheels clatteringontheparquetinhishaste.

***There were footsteps

coming up the stairs; Joanstarted away from thewindowbutthencranedback,desperately willing the dooracross the street to open andletMichaelout.Whatwashedoingthere?

Thatdoordidn’topen,butakeyrattledinthelockofthedoor to the room. Indesperation, she tore therosary from her belt andpushed it through thehole inthe window, then dashedacross the room and threwherself into one of therepulsivechairs.

It was the comte. Heglancedround,worriedforaninstant, and then his facerelaxedwhenhesawher.He

cametowardher,holdingouthishand.

“I’m sorry to have keptyou waiting, mademoiselle,”hesaid,verycourtly.“Come,please. I have something toshowyou.”

“I don’t want to see it.”She stiffened a little andtucked her feet under her, tomakeitharderforhimtopickherup.Ifshecouldjustdelayhim until Michael came out!Buthemightwellnotseeher

rosary or, even if he did,know it was hers. Whyshouldhe?Allnuns’ rosarieslookedthesame!

She strained her ears,hoping to hear the sounds ofdepartureontheothersideofthe street—she’d scream herlungsout.Infact…

The comte sighed a littlebut bent and took her by theelbows,liftingherstraightup,her knees still absurdly bent.He was really very strong.

She put her feet down, andthere she was, her handtucked into the crook of hiselbow, being led across theroom toward thedoor,docileas a cow on its way to bemilked! She made her mindup inan instant,yankedfree,and ran to the smashedwindow.

“HELP!” she bellowedthrough the broken pane.“Help me, help me! Ausecours, Imean!AUSECOU

—” The comte’s handclapped across her mouth,and he said something inFrenchthatshewassuremustbebad language.Hescoopedher up, so fast that the windwas knocked out of her, andhad her through the doorbefore she could makeanothersound.

***Michael didn’t pause for

hatorcloakbutburstintothe

street, so fast that his driverstarted out of a doze and thehorses jerked and neighed inprotest. He didn’t pause forthat, either, but shot acrossthe cobbles and pounded onthedoor,abigbronze-coatedaffair that boomed under hisfists.

Itcouldn’thavebeenverylong but seemed an eternity.He fumed, pounded again,and, pausing for breath,caught sight of the rosary on

thepavement.Herantocatchitup,scratchedhishand,andsaw that it lay in a scatter ofglass fragments. At once helookedup,searching,andsawthebrokenwindowjustasthebigdooropened.

He sprang at the butlerlikeawildcat,seizinghimbythearms.

“Where is she? Where,damnyou?”

“She? But there is no‘she,’ monsieur.… Monsieur

le Comte lives quite alone.You—”

“Where is Monsieur leComte?” Michael’s sense ofurgencywas so great, he feltthat hemight strike theman.The man apparently felt hemight,too,becauseheturnedpale and, wrenching himselfloose, fled into the depths ofthehouse.Withnomorethanan instant’s hesitation,Michaelpursuedhim.

Thebutler,hisfeetfueled

by fear, flew down the hall,Michael in grim pursuit. Themanburstthroughthedoortothe kitchen; Michael wasdimly aware of the shockedfacesofcooksandmaids,andthen they were out into thekitchen garden. The butlerslowed for an instant goingdown the steps, andMichaellaunched himself at theman,knockinghimflat.

They rolled together onthe graveled path, then

Michael got on top of thesmaller man, seized him bythe shirtfront, and, shakinghim, shouted, “WHERE ISHE?”

Thoroughly undone, thebutler covered his face withone arm and pointed blindlytowardagateinthewall.

Michael leapt off thesupine body and ran. Hecould hear the rumble ofcoach wheels, the rattle ofhooves—he flung open the

gateintimetoseethebackofa coach rattling down theallée and a gaping servantpausedintheactofslidingtothedoorsofacarriagehouse.He ran, but it was clear thathe’dnevercatchthecoachonfoot.

“JOAN!” he bellowedafter the vanishing equipage.“I’mcoming!”

He didn’t waste time inquestioning the servant butran back, pushing his way

through the maids andfootmen gathered round thecoweringbutler,andburstoutofthehouse,startlinghisowncoachmanafresh.

“That way!” he shouted,pointing toward the distantconjunction of the street andthe allée, where the comte’scoach was just emerging.“Followthatcoach!Vite!”

***“Vite!” The comte urged

his coachman on, then sankback, letting fall the hatch inthe roof. The light wasfading; his errand had takenlonger than he’d expected,andhewantedtobeoutofthecitybeforenightfell.Thecitystreets were dangerous atnight.

Hiscaptivewasstaringathim,hereyesenormousinthedim light. She’d lost herpostulant’sveil, andherdarkhair was loose on her

shoulders. She lookedcharmingbutveryscared.Hereached into the bag on thefloorandpulledoutaflaskofbrandy.

“Have a little of this,chérie.”Heremovedthecorkandhandedittoher.Shetookit but looked uncertain whatto dowith it, nosewrinklingatthehotsmell.

“Really,” he assured her.“Itwillmakeyoufeelbetter.”

“That’s what they all

say,” she said in her slow,awkwardFrench.

“Allofwhom?”heasked,startled.

“The Auld Ones. I don’tknow what you call them inFrench,exactly.Thefolkthatliveinthehills—souterrain?”she added doubtfully.“Underground?”

“Underground? And theygiveyoubrandy?”Hesmiledat her, but his heart gave asudden thump of excitement.

Perhaps she was. He’ddoubtedhisinstinctswhenhistouchfailedtokindleher,butclearlyshewassomething.

“They give you food anddrink,” she said, putting theflaskdownbetweenthesquabandthewall.“Butifyoutakeany,youlosetime.”

The spurt of excitementcameagain,stronger.

“Losetime?”herepeated,encouraging. “How do youmean?”

She struggled to findwords, smooth browfurrowedwiththeeffort.

“They…you…onewhoisenchantedbythem—he,it?No, he—goes into the hill,and there’s music andfeasting and dancing. But inthe morning, when hegoes … back, it’s twohundred years later than itwas when he went to feastwith the … the Folk.Everybody he knew has

turnedtodust.”“How interesting!” he

said. It was. He alsowondered,withafreshspasmof excitement, whether theold paintings, the ones farback in the bowels of thechalkmine,might have beenmadebytheseFolk,whoevertheywere.

She observed himnarrowly, apparently for anindication that he was afaerie. He smiled at her,

though his heart was nowthumpingaudibly inhisears.Two hundred years! For thatwas what Mélisande—Damnher,hethoughtbriefly,withapang at the reminder ofMadeleine—hadtoldhimwasthe usual period when onetraveled through stone. Itcould be changed by use ofgemstonesorblood,shesaid,butthatwastheusual.Andithad been, the first time hewentback.

“Don’tworry,”hesaid tothe girl, hoping to reassureher.“Ionlywantyoutolookat something. Then I’ll takeyou back to the convent—assuming that you still wantto go there?” He lifted aneyebrow, half-teasing. Itreally wasn’t his intent tofrighten her, though healready had, and he fearedthat more fright wasunavoidable. He wonderedjustwhat shemightdowhen

she realized that he was infact planning to take herunderground.

***Michaelkneltontheseat,

his head out the window ofthe coach, urging it on byforce of will and muscle. Itwas nearly full dark, and thecomte’s coach was visibleonly as a distantly movingblot. They were out of thecity, though; there were no

other large vehicles on theroad, nor likely to be—andtherewere very few turningswhere such a large equipagemightleavethemainroad.

The wind blew in hisface, tugging strands of hairloose so they beat about hisface.Itblewthefaintscentofdecay, too—they’d pass thecemeteryinafewminutes.

He wished passionatelythat he’d thought to bring apistol, a smallsword—

anything! But there wasnothing in the coach withhim, and he had nothing onhis person save his clothesandwhatwas inhispockets:this consisting, after a hastyinventory, of a handful ofcoins, a used handkerchief—the one Joan had given backto him, in fact, and hecrumpled it tightly in onehand—a tinderbox, amangledpaperspill,astubofsealing wax, and a small

stone he’d picked up in thestreet, pinkish with a yellowstripe. Perhaps he couldimprovise a sling with thehandkerchief, he thoughtwildly,andpastethecomteintheforeheadwiththestone,àla David and Goliath. Andthencutoff thecomte’sheadwith the penknife hediscovered in his breastpocket,hesupposed.

Joan’s rosarywas also inthatpocket;hetookitoutand

wound it roundhis lefthand,holdingthebeadsforcomfort—he was too distracted topray, beyond the words herepeated silently over andover,hardlynoticingwhathesaid.

Letmefindherintime!

***“Tell me,” the comte

asked curiously, “why didyouspeaktomeinthemarketthatday?”

“I wish I hadn’t,” Joanreplied briefly. She didn’ttrust him an inch—still lesssince he’d offered her thebrandy. It hadn’t struck herbefore that that he reallymight be one of the AuldOnes.Theycouldwalkabout,looking just like people. Herown mother had beenconvinced for years—andeven some of the Murraysthought so—that Da’s wife,Claire, was one. She herself

wasn’t sure; Claire had beenkind to her, but no one saidthe Folk couldn’t be kind iftheywantedto.

Da’s wife. A suddenthought paralyzed her: thememory of her first meetingwith Mother Hildegarde,when she’d given theReverend Mother Claire’sletter.She’dsaid,“mamère,”unabletothinkofawordthatmight mean “stepmother.” Ithadn’tseemedtomatter;why

shouldanyonecare?“Claire Fraser,” she said

aloud, watching the comtecarefully. “Do you knowher?”

His eyes widened,showing white in thegloaming. Oh, aye, he kenther,allright!

“I do,” he said, leaningforward.“Yourmother,isshenot?”

“No!” Joan said, withgreatforce,andrepeateditin

French, several times foremphasis.“No,she’snot!”

But she observed, with asinking heart, that her forcehad been misplaced. Hedidn’t believe her; she couldtell by the eagerness in hisface. He thought she waslyingtoputhimoff.

“I told youwhat I did inthemarketbecausethevoicestold me to!” she blurted,desperate for anything thatmight distract him from the

horrifyingnotionthatshewasoneoftheFolk.Thoughifhewas one, her common sensepointed out, he ought to beable to recognize her. Oh,Jesus, Lamb of God—that’swhat he’d been trying to do,holdingherhandssotightandstaringintoherface.

“Voices?” he said,looking rather blank. “Whatvoices?”

“The ones in my head,”she said, heaving an internal

sigh of exasperation. “Theytellme things now and then.About other people, I mean.You know,” she went on,encouraging him, “I’m a—a”—St.Jeromeonabannock,what was the word?!?—“someone who sees thefuture,” she ended weakly.“Er…someofit.Sometimes.Notalways.”

Thecomtewas rubbingafingeroverhisupper lip; shedidn’t know if he was

expressingdoubtortryingnotto laugh, but either way itmadeherangry.

“So one of them toldmetotellyethat,andIdid!”shesaid, lapsing into Scots. “Idinnakenwhat it isye’renosupposedtodo,butI’dadviseyenottodoit!”

It occurred to herbelatedly that perhaps killingher was the thing he wasn’tsupposed to do, and shewasabout to put this notion to

him,butby the time shehaddisentangled enoughgrammar to have a go at it,the coach was slowing,bumpingfromside tosideasitturnedoffthemainroad.Asickly smell seeped into theair, and she sat up straight,herheartinherthroat.

“Mary, Joseph, andBride,”shesaid,hervoicenomore than a squeak. “Wherearewe?”

***Michael leapt from the

coach almost before it hadstopped moving. He daren’tlet themget too far ahead ofhim; his driver had nearlymissed the turning,as itwas,and the comte’s coach hadcometoahaltminutesbeforehisownreachedit.

“Talktotheotherdriver,”he shouted at his own, halfvisible on the box. “Find outwhy the comte has come

here! Find out what he’sdoing!”

Nothing good. He wassure of that. Though hecouldn’timaginewhyanyonewouldkidnapanunanddragher out of Paris in the dark,only to stop at the edge of apublic cemetery.Unless … half-heard rumorsof depraved men whomurdered and dismemberedtheirvictims,eventhosewhoate…Hiswameroseandhe

nearly vomited, but itwasn’tpossible to vomit and run atthe same time, and he couldsee a pale splotch on thedarkness that he thought—hehoped, he feared—must beJoan.

Suddenly the night burstinto flower. A huge puff ofgreen fire bloomed in thedarkness, and by its eerieglow he saw her clearly, herhairflyinginthewind.

He opened his mouth to

shout, to call out to her, buthe had no breath, and beforehe could recover it shevanished into theground, thecomtefollowingher, torch inhand.

He reached the shaftmoments later, and he sawbelowthefaintestgreenglow,justvanishingdownatunnel.Without an instant’shesitation, he flung himselfdowntheladder.

***“Do you hear anything?”

the comte kept asking her asthey stumbled along thewhite-walled tunnels, hegrasping her so hard by thearm that he’d surely leavebruisesonherskin.

“No,” she gasped.“What…amIlisteningfor?”

Hemerelyshookhisheadinadispleasedway,butmoreasthoughhewaslisteningforsomething himself than

because he was angry withherfornothearingit.

She had some hopes thathe’dmeantwhat he said andwould take her back. He didmean to go back himself;he’d lit several torches andleft them burning along theirway. So he wasn’t about todisappear into the hillaltogether, taking her withhim to the lighted ballroomwherepeopledancedallnightwith the Fine Folk, unaware

that their own world slippedpastbeyond thestonesof thehill.

The comte stoppedabruptly, hand squeezingharderroundherarm.

“Be still,” he said veryquietly, though she wasn’tmakinganynoise.“Listen.”

She listened as hard aspossible—and thought shedidhearsomething.Whatshethought she heard, though,was footsteps, far in the

distance. Behind them. Herheartseizedupforamoment.

“What—what do youhear?”she thoughtofasking.He glanced down at her, butnot as though he really sawher.

“Them,” he said. “Thestones.Theymake a buzzingsound, most of the time. Ifit’s close to a fire feast or asun feast, though, they begintosing.”

“Do they?” she said

faintly. He was hearingsomething, and evidently itwasn’t the footsteps she’dheard. The footsteps hadstopped now, as thoughwhoever followed waswaiting, maybe stealingalong, one step at a time,carefultomakenosound.

“Yes,” he said, and hisfacewasintent.Helookedather sharply again, and thistimehesawher.

“You don’t hear them,”

he said with certainty, andshe shook her head. Hepressedhislipstighttogetherbut after amoment lifted hischin, gesturing towardanother tunnel, where thereseemed to be somethingpaintedonthechalk.

He paused there to lightanother torch—this oneburned a brilliant yellow andstankof sulfur—andshe sawby its light the waveringshape of the Virgin and

Child. Her heart lifted at thesight,forsurelyfaerieswouldhave no such thing in theirlair.

“Come,”hesaid,andnowtookherbythehand.Hisownwascold.

***Michaelcaughtaglimpse

ofthemastheymovedintoasidetunnel.Thecomtehadlitanother torch, a red one thistime—howdidhedo that?—

and it was easy to follow itsglow.

How far down in thebowels of the earth werethey?He had long since losttrack of the turnings, thoughhemight be able to get backby following the torches—assuming they hadn’t allburnedout.

He still had no plan inmind, other than to followthemuntiltheystopped.Thenhe’d make himself known

and…well, take Joanaway,by whatever means provednecessary.

Swallowing hard, rosarystill wrapped around his lefthand and penknife in hisright, he stepped into theshadows.

***The chamber was round

and quite large. Big enoughthat the torchlight didn’treach all the edges, but it lit

the pentagram inscribed intothefloorinthecenter.

The noise was makingRakoczy’s bones ache, andoften as he had heard it, itneverfailedtomakehisheartraceandhishands sweat.Heletgoofthenun’shandforamoment towipe his palmonthe skirts of his coat, notwanting to disgust her. Shelooked scared but notterrified, and if she heard it,surelyshe—

Her eyes had widenedsuddenly.

“Who’sthat?”shesaid.He whirled, to see

Raymond standing tranquillyin the center of thepentagram.

“Bon soir,mademoiselle,” the frogsaid,bowingpolitely.

“Ah…bonsoir,”thegirlrepliedfaintly.

“What the devil are youdoing here?” Rakoczy

interposed his body betweenRaymondandthenun.

“Very likely the samething you are,” the frogreplied.“Mightyouintroduceyourpetiteamie,sir?”

Shock, anger, and sheerconfusionrobbedRakoczyofspeech for a moment. Whatwas the infernal creaturedoing here? Wait—the girl!The lost daughter he’dmentioned: the nun was thedaughter! He’d discovered

her whereabouts andsomehow followed them tothisplace.Rakoczytookholdof the girl’s arm again,firmly.

“SheisaScotch,”hesaid.“And, as you see, a nun.Noconcernofyours.”

The frog looked amused,cool and unruffled. Rakoczywas sweating, the noisebeating against his skin inwaves.Hecouldfeelthelittlebagofstonesinhispocket,a

hard lump against his heart.They seemed to be warm,warmereventhanhisskin.

“I doubt that she is,really,”saidRaymond.“Whyis she a concern of yours,though?”

“That’salsononeofyourbusiness.” He was trying tothink.Hecouldn’tlayoutthestones, not with the damnedfrogstanding there.Couldhejustleavewiththegirl?Butifthe frog meant him

harm… and if the girl trulywasn’t…

Raymond ignored theincivilityandbowedagain tothegirl.

“I am Master Raymond,my dear,” he said. “Andyou?”

“Joan Mac—” she said.“Er … Sister Gregory, Imean.”ShetriedtopullawayfromRakoczy’sgrip.“Um.IfI’mnot the concernof eitherofyougentlemen—”

“She’s my concern,gentlemen.” The voice washigh with nerves, but firm.Rakoczy looked round,shocked to see the youngwine merchant walk into thechamber,disheveledanddirtybuteyes fixedon thegirl.AtRakoczy’s side, the nungasped.

“Sister.” The merchantbowed. He was white-facedbut not sweating. He lookedas though the chill of the

cavern had seeped into hisbones,butheputoutahand,from which the beads of awooden rosary swung. “Youdroppedyourrosary.”

***Joan thought she might

faint from sheer relief. Herknees wobbled from terrorand exhaustion, but shesummonedenoughstrengthtowrenchfreeofthecomteandrun, stumbling, into

Michael’s arms. He grabbedherandhauledherawayfromthecomte,half-draggingher.

Thecomtemadeanangrysound and took a step inJoan’s direction, butMichaelsaid, “Stop right there, yewicked bugger!” just as thelittle froggy-faced man saidsharply,“Stop!”

The comte swung towardfirst one and then the other.He looked … crazed. Joanswallowed and nudged

Michael, urging him towardthechamber’sdoor,onlythennoticing the penknife in hishand.

“What were ye going todowi’ that?” shewhispered.“Shavehim?”

“Let the air out of him,”Michael muttered. Helowered his hand but didn’tput the knife away and kepthiseyesonthetwomen.

“Your daughter,” thecomte said hoarsely to the

man who called himselfMasterRaymond.“Youwerelooking for a lost daughter.I’vefoundherforyou.”

Raymond’s brows shotup,andheglancedatJoan.

“Mine?” he said,astonished. “She isn’t one ofmine.Can’tyoutell?”

The comte drew a breathso deep it cracked in histhroat.

“Tell?But—”The frog looked

impatient.“Can you not see auras?

The electrical fluid thatsurrounds people,” heelucidated, waving a handaroundhisownhead.

Thecomterubbedahandhard over his face. “I can’t—”

“Forgoodnesssake,comeinhere!”Raymondsteppedtothe edge of the star, reachedacross,andseizedthecomte’shand.

***Rakoczy stiffened at the

touch. Blue light explodedfrom their linked hands, andhe gasped, feeling a surge ofenergy such as he had neverbeforeexperienced.Raymondpulled hard, and Rakoczystepped across the line intothepentagram.

Silence. The buzzing hadstopped.Henearlyweptwiththereliefofit.

“I—you—” he

stammered, looking at thelinkedhands.

“You didn’t know?”Raymondlookedsurprised.

“That you were a—” Hewaved at the pentagram. “Ithoughtyoumightbe.”

“Not that,” Raymondsaid,almostgently.“Thatyouwereoneofmine.”

“Yours?”Rakoczylookeddown again; the blue lightwas pulsing gently now,surroundingtheirfingers.

“Everyonehasanauraofsome kind,” Raymond said.“But onlymy…people…havethis.”

In the blessed silence, itwas possible to think again.And the first thing that cameto mind was the StarChamber,thekinglookingonas they had faced each otherover a poisoned cup. Andnow he knew why the froghadn’tkilledhim.

***His mind bubbled with

questions.LaDameBlanche,blue light, Mélisande, andMadeleine … Thought ofMadeleine and what grew inher womb nearly stoppedhim,but theurge to findout,to know at last, was toostrong.

“Can you—can we—goforward?”

Raymond hesitated amoment,thennodded.

“Yes. But it’s not safe.Notsafeatall.”

“Willyoushowme?”“I mean it.” The frog’s

griptightenedonhis.“It’snotasafethingtoknow,letalonetodo.”

Rakoczy laughed, feelingallatonceexhilarated,fullofjoy. Why should he fearknowledge? Perhaps thepassage would kill him—buthehadapocketfullofgems,and, besides, what was the

point of waiting to dieslowly?

“Tell me!” he said,squeezing the other’s hand.“For the sake of our sharedblood!”

***Joan stood stock-still,

amazed. Michael’s arm wasstill around her, but shescarcelynoticed.

“He is!” she whispered.“Hetrulyis!Theybothare!”

“Are what?” Michaelgapedather.

“AuldFolk!Faeries!”He lookedwildly back at

the scene before them. Thetwo men stood face-to-face,hands locked together, theirmouths moving in animatedconversation—in totalsilence. It was like watchingmimes but even lessinteresting.

“I dinna care what theyare. Loons, criminals,

demons,angels…Comeon!”He dropped his arm andseized her hand, but shewasplanted solid as an oaksapling, her eyes growingwideandwider.

Shegrippedhishandhardenoughtogrindthebonesandshrieked at the top of herlungs,“Don’tdoit!!”

He whirled round just intimetoseethemvanish.

***

They stumbled togetherdownthelong,palepassages,bathed in the flickering lightofdyingtorches,red,yellow,blue, green, a ghastly purplethat made Joan’s face lookdrowned.

“Des feux d’artifice,”Michael said. His voicesoundedqueer,echoingintheempty tunnels. “A conjurer’strick.”

“What?” Joan lookeddrugged, her eyes blackwith

shock.“Thefires.The…colors.

Have ye never heard offireworks?”

“No.”“Oh.”Itseemedtoomuch

astruggletoexplain,andtheywent on in silence, hurryingas much as they could, toreach the shaft before thelightdiedentirely.

At the bottom, he pausedtolethergofirst,thinkingtoolatethatheshouldhavegone

first—she’dthinkhemeanttolook up her dress.… Heturned hastily away, faceburning.

“D’yethinkhewas?Thattheywere?”Shewashangingon to the ladder, a few feetabove him. Beyond her, hecouldseethestars,sereneinavelvetsky.

“Were what?” He lookedat her face, so as not to riskhermodesty.Shewaslookingbetternowbutveryserious.

“Were they Auld Folk?Faeries?”

“I suppose theymust ha’been.”Hismindwasmovingveryslowly;hedidn’twanttohave to try to think. Hemotioned toher toclimbandfollowed her up, his eyestightly shut. If they wereAuldOnes,thenlikelysowasAuntieClaire.Hetrulydidn’twanttothinkaboutthat.

He drew the fresh airgratefully intohis lungs.The

wind was toward the citynow, coming off the fields,fulloftheresinouscoolscentofpinetreesandthebreathofgrass andcattle.He felt Joanbreatheitin,sighdeeply,andthen she turned to him, puther arms around him, andrested her forehead on hischest.He put his arms roundher and they stood for sometime,inpeace.

Finally, she stirred andstraightenedup.

“Ye’dbest takemeback,then,” she said. “The sisterswill be half out o’ theirminds.”

He was conscious of asharpsenseofdisappointmentbut turned obediently towardthe coach, standing in thedistance. Then he turnedback.

“Ye’re sure?” he said.“Didyourvoicestellyetogoback?”

She made a sound that

wasn’tquitearuefullaugh.“I dinna need a voice to

tell me that.” She brushed ahand through her hair,smoothingitoffherface.“Inthe Highlands, if a man’swidowed, he takes anotherwife as soon as he can getone; he’s got to havesomeone to mend his shirtandrearhisbairns.ButSisterPhilomène says it’s differentin Paris; that a man mightmournforayear.”

“Hemight,”hesaid,afterashortsilence.Wouldayearbe enough, he wondered, toheal the great hole whereLilliehadbeen?Heknewhewould never forget—neverstop looking for her—but hedidn’t forget what Ian hadtoldhim,either.

“Butaftera time, ye findye’reinadifferentplacethanye were. A different personthan ye were. And then yelook about and see what’s

there with ye. Ye’ll maybefindauseforyourself.”

Joan’s face was pale andserious in themoonlight, hermouthgentle.

“It’s a year before apostulantmakesuphermind.Whethertostayandbecomeanovice—or … or leave. Ittakestime.Toknow.”

“Aye,” he said softly.“Aye,itdoes.”

He turned to go, but shestopped him, a hand on his

arm.“Michael,”shesaid.“Kiss

me, aye? I think I shouldmaybe know that, before Idecide.”

AbouttheAuthorDIANA GABALDON is

the New York Timesbestselling author of thewildly popular Outlandernovels,Outlander,DragonflyinAmber,Voyager,DrumsofAutumn, The Fiery Cross, ABreath of Snow and Ashes(for which she won a QuillAward and the CorineInternationalBookPrize),AnEcho in the Bone, and the

forthcoming Written in MyOwnHeart’s Blood, and onework of nonfiction, TheOutlandish Companion, aswell as the bestselling seriesfeaturing Lord John Grey, acharacter she introduced inDragonfly in Amber. ShelivesinScottsdale,Arizona.

DianaGabaldon’sOutlandernovelshavecapturedtheimaginationofmillionsof

readers—andnowthatitistheinspirationforanewTVseriesonStarz,willenthrallmillions

more.

Readonforanexcerptfromtheeighththrillinginstallmentinthe

series,WritteninMyOwnHeart’sBlood,onsaleJune10th,

2014.

CHAPTERTHREE:INWHICHTHEWOMEN,ASUSUAL,PICKUPTHE

PIECES

No.17ChestnutStreet,PhiladelphiaThe

residenceofLordandLadyJohnGrey

William had left thehouse likea thunderclap,andtheplace lookedas though ithadbeen struckby lightning.I certainly felt like the

survivor of a massiveelectrical storm, hairs andnerveendingsallstandingupstraight on end, waving inagitation.

JennyMurrayhadenteredthe house on the heels ofWilliam’s departure, andwhile the sight of her was alesser shock than any of theothers so far, it still left mespeechless. I goggled at myerstwhile sister-in-law—though, come to think, she

still was my sister-in-law … because Jamie wasalive.Alive.

He’dbeeninmyarmsnotten minutes before, and thememory of his touchflickered through me likelightning in a bottle. I wasdimly aware that I wassmiling like a loon, despitemassive destruction, horrificscenes,William’sdistress—ifyou could call an explosionlike that “distress”—Jamie’s

danger,andafaintwonderasto what either Jenny orMrs.Figg, Lord John’s cook andhousekeeper, might be abouttosay.

Mrs. Figg was smoothlyspherical, gleamingly black,and inclined to glide silentlyup behind one like amenacingballbearing.

“What’s this?” shebarked, manifesting herselfsuddenlybehindJenny.

“Holy Mother of God!”

Jenny whirled, eyes roundandhandpressedtoherchest.“Who in God’s name areyou?”

“This is Mrs. Figg,” Isaid,feelingasurrealurgetolaugh, despite—or maybebecause of—recent events.“LordJohnGrey’scook.AndMrs. Figg, this is Mrs.Murray.My,um…my…”

“Yourgood-sister,”Jennysaid firmly. She raised oneblackeyebrow.“Ifye’llhave

me still?” Her look wasstraight and open, and theurge to laugh changedabruptly into an equallystrongurgetoburstintotears.Ofall theunlikelysourcesofsuccor I could haveimagined … I took a deepbreathandputoutmyhand.

“I’ll have you.” Wehadn’t parted on good termsin Scotland, but I had lovedher very much, once, andwasn’t about to pass up any

opportunitytomendthings.Her small firm fingers

wovethroughmine,squeezedhard,and,assimplyasthat,itwas done. No need forapologies or spokenforgiveness. She’d never hadto wear the mask that Jamiedid. What she thought andfelt was there in her eyes,those slanted blue cat-eyesshe shared with her brother.She knew the truth now ofwhat I was, and she knew I

loved and always had lovedherbrotherwith allmyheartand soul—despite the minorcomplications of my beingpresentlymarriedtosomeoneelse.

She heaved a sigh, eyesclosing for an instant, thenopened them and smiled atme, mouth trembling only alittle.

“Well, fine and dandy,”said Mrs. Figg shortly. Shenarrowedhereyesandrotated

smoothly on her axis, takingin the panorama ofdestruction.Therailingatthetop of the stair had beenripped off, and crackedbanisters, dented walls, andbloody smudges marked thepath of William’s descent.Shattered crystals from thechandelier littered the floor,glinting festively in the lightfromtheopenfrontdoor, thedoor itself cracked throughand hanging drunkenly from

onehinge.“Merde on toast,” Mrs.

Figg murmured. She turnedabruptly to me, her smallblack-currant eyes stillnarrowed. “Where’s hislordship?”

“Ah,” I said. This wasgoing to be rather sticky, Isaw. While deeplydisapproving ofmost people,Mrs. Figg was devoted toJohn.Shewasn’tgoing tobeatallpleasedtohearthathe’d

beenabductedby—“For that matter, where’s

mybrother?” Jenny inquired,glancing round as thoughexpecting Jamie to appearsuddenly out from under thesettee.

“Oh,” I said. “Hmm.Well…”Possiblyworsethansticky.Because…

“And where’s my sweetWilliam?” Mrs. Figgdemanded, sniffing the air.“He’sbeenhere; I smell that

stinkycologneheputsonhislinen.” She nudged adislodged chunk of plasterdisapprovinglywiththetoeofhershoe.

I took another long, deepbreath and a tight grip onwhatremainedofmysanity.

“Mrs. Figg,” I said,“perhaps you would be sokind as tomake us all a cupoftea?”

We sat in the parlor,while Mrs. Figg came and

went to the cookhouse,keeping an eye on herterrapinstew.

“You don’t want toscorch turtle, no, you don’t,”she said severely to us,settingdown the teapot in itspadded yellow cozy on herreturn. “Not with so muchsherryashislordshiplikesinit. Almost a full bottle—terriblewasteofgood liquor,thatwouldbe.”

My insides turned over

promptly. Turtle soup—witha lot of sherry—had certainstrong and privateassociations for me, thesebeing connected with Jamie,feverish delirium, and theway inwhich a heaving shipassists sexual intercourse.Contemplation of whichwould not assist theimpending discussion in theslightest. I rubbed a fingerbetweenmy brows, in hopesof dispelling the buzzing

cloud of confusion gatheringthere. The air in the housestillfeltelectric.

“Speaking of sherry,” Isaid, “or any other sort ofstrongspiritsyoumighthaveconvenient,Mrs.Figg…”

She looked thoughtfullyat me, nodded, and reachedfor the decanter on thesideboard.

“Brandy is stronger,” shesaid,andsetitinfrontofme.

Jenny looked at me with

the same thoughtfulness and,reaching out, poured a good-sized slug of the brandy intomy cup, then a similar oneintoherown.

“Just in case,” she said,raising one brow, and wedrank for a few moments. Ithought it might takesomething stronger thanbrandy-laced tea todealwiththeeffectof recenteventsonmy nerves—laudanum, say,or a large slug of straight

Scotch whisky—but the teaundeniably helped, hot andaromatic, settling in a softtricklingwarmthamidships.

“So, then. We’re fettled,arewe?” Jenny set downherown cup and lookedexpectant.

“It’sastart.”Itookadeepbreath and gave her a précisofrecentevents.

Jenny’s eyes weredisturbinglylikeJamie’s.Sheblinked at me once, then

twice, and shookherheadasthough to clear it, acceptingwhatI’djusttoldher.

“So Jamie’s gone offwi’your Lord John, the Britisharmyisafterthem,thetallladImeton the stoopwi’ steamcomin’ out of his ears isJamie’s son—well, of coursehe is; a blindman could seethat—and the town’s aboilwi’Britishsoldiers.Isthatit,then?”

“He’s not exactly my

LordJohn,”Isaid.“But,yes,that’sessentiallytheposition.ItakeitJamietoldyouaboutWilliam?”

“Aye, he did.” Shegrinnedatmeovertherimofher teacup. “I’m that happyforhim.Butwhat’stroublinghis lad, then?He looked likehewouldnagivetheroadtoabear.”

“Whatdidyousay?”Mrs.Figg’s voice cut in abruptly.Shesetdownthetrayshehad

just brought in, the silvermilk jug and sugar basinrattling like castanets.“Williamiswhoseson?”

Itookafortifyinggulpoftea.Mrs. Figg did know thatI’d been married to—andtheoretically widowed from—one JamesFraser.But thatwasallsheknew.

“Well,”Isaid,andpausedtoclearmythroat.“The,um,tall gentleman with the redhairwhowas just here—you

sawhim?”“I did.” Mrs. Figg eyed

menarrowly.“Didyougetagoodlook

athim?”“Didn’tpaymuchheedto

hisfacewhenhecametothedoor and asked where youwere, but I saw his backsidepretty plain when he pushedpastmeandranupthestairs.”

“Possiblytheresemblanceis less marked from thatangle.” I took another

mouthfulof tea.“Um…thatgentleman is James Fraser,my … er … my—” “Firsthusband” wasn’t accurate,and neither was “lasthusband”—or even,unfortunately, “most recenthusband.” I settled for thesimplest alternative. “Myhusband. And,er…William’sfather.”

Mrs. Figg’s mouthopened, soundless for aninstant.Shebackedupslowly

and sat down on aneedlework ottoman with asoftphumph.

“Williamknowthat?”sheasked, after a moment’scontemplation.

“He does now,” I said,with a brief gesture towardthe devastation in thestairwell, clearly visiblethroughthedooroftheparlorwhereweweresitting.

“Merdeon—Imean,HolyLamb of God preserve us.”

Mrs. Figg’s second husbandwas a Methodist preacher,and she strove to be a credittohim,butherfirsthadbeena French gambler. Her eyesfixedonmelikegun-sights.

“Youhismother?”Ichokedonmytea.“No,” I said, wiping my

chin with a linen napkin. “Itisn’t quite that complicated.”In fact, itwasmore so, but Iwasn’t going to explain justhowWillie had come about,

either to Mrs. Figg or toJenny.JamiehadtohavetoldJennywhoWilliam’smotherwas, but I doubted that he’dtold his sister that William’smother, Geneva Dunsany,had forced him into her bedby threatening Jenny’sfamily.Nomanofspiritlikesto admit that he’s beeneffectivelyblackmailedbyaneighteen-year-oldgirl.

“Lord John becameWilliam’s legal guardian

when William’s grandfatherdied, and at that point, LordJohn also married LadyIsobel Dunsany, Willie’smother’s sister.She’d lookedafter Willie since hismother’s death in childbirth,and she and Lord John wereessentially Willie’s parentssince he was quite young.Isobel died when he waselevenorso.”

Mrs. Figg took thisexplanation in stride, but

wasn’t about to be distractedfromthemainpointatissue.

“James Fraser,” she said,tapping a couple of broadfingers on her knee andlooking accusingly at Jenny.“How comes he not to bedead? News was hedrowned.”Shecuthereyesatme. “I thought his lordshipwas like to throw himself inthe harbor, too, when heheardit.”

I closed my own eyes

with a sudden shudder, thesalt-cold horror of that newswashingovermeinawaveofmemory. Even with Jamie’stouch still joyful onmy skinand the knowledge of himglowinginmyheart,Irelivedthe crushing pain of hearingthathewasdead.

“Well, I can enlighten yeonthatpoint,atleast.”

I opened my eyes to seeJenny drop a lump of sugarinto her fresh tea and nod at

Mrs.Figg. “Wewere to takepassage on a ship calledEuterpe—my brother andmyself—outo’Brest.Buttheblackheartedthiefofacaptainsailedwithoutus.Muchgoodit did him,” she added,frowning.

Much good, indeed. TheEuterpe had sunk in a stormin the Atlantic, lost with allhands. As I—and John Grey—hadbeentold.

“Jamie found us another

ship, but it landed us inVirginia, and we’d to makeour way up the coast, partlyby wagon, partly by packetboat, keepin’ out of the wayof the soldiers. Those weeneedlesyegaveJamieagainsttheseasicknessworkmosto’the time,” she added, turningapprovingly to me. “Heshowedme how to put themin for him. But when wecame to Philadelphiayesterday,” she went on,

returning to her tale, “westole into the city by night,like a pair o’ thieves, andmade our way to Fergus’sprintshop.Lord,Ithoughtmyheart would stop a dozentimes!”

She smiled at thememory,andIwasstruckbythe change in her. Theshadowofsorrowstill layonherface,andshewasthinandworn by travel, but theterrible strain of her husband

Ian’s long dying had lifted.Therewascolorinhercheeksagain,andabrightnessinhereyesthatIhadnotseensinceI had first known her thirtyyears before. She had foundherpeace, I thought, and felta thankfulness that easedmyownsoul.

“…soJamie tapson thedoor at the back, and there’snoanswer,thoughwecanseethe light of a fire comin’through the shutters. He

knocks again, makin’ a weetune of it—” She rapped herknuckles lightly on the table,bump-ba-da-bump-ba-da-bump-bump-bump, and myheartturnedover,recognizingthe theme from The LoneRanger, which Brianna hadtaughthim.

“And after a moment,”Jenny went on, “a woman’svoicecallsoutfierce,‘Who’sthere?’AndJamiesaysintheGaidhlig, ‘It is your father,

mydaughter,andacold,wet,and hungry man he is, too.’For it was rainin’ hammerhandles and pitchforks, andwe were both soaked to theskin.”

She rocked back a little,enjoyingthetelling.

“Thedooropensthen,justa crack, and there’s Marsaliwi’ahorsepistolinherhand,and her two wee lassesbehind her, fierce asarchangels, eachwithabillet

of wood, ready to crack athief across his shins. Theysee the firelight shine onJamie’s face then, and allthreeofthemletoutskellochsliketowakethedeadandfalluponhimanddraghiminsideand all talkin’ at once andgreetin’, askin’ was he aghost and why was he notdrowned, and that was thefirst we learned that theEuterpe had sunk.” Shecrossed herself. “God rest

them, poor souls,” she said,shakingherhead.

Icrossedmyself,too,andsawMrs.Figg looksidewaysat me; she hadn’t realized IwasaPapist.

“I’ve come in, too, ofcourse,” Jennywent on, “buteveryone’stalkin’atonceandrushin’toandfroinsearchofdryclothesandhotdrinksandI’m just lookin’ about theplace, for I’ve never beeninsideaprintshopbefore,and

the smell of the ink and thepaperandleadisawondertome, and, sudden-like, there’sa tug at my skirt and thissweet-facedweemanniesaysto me, ‘And who are you,madame? Would you likesomecider?’”

“Henri-Christian,” Imurmured,smilingatthoughtof Marsali’s youngest, andJennynodded.

“‘Why,I’myourgrannieJanet, son,’ says I, and his

eyesgoround,andheletsouta shriek and grabsme roundthe legs andgivesme suchahug as to make me lose mybalanceand falldownon thesettle. I’ve a bruise on mybum the size of your hand,”sheaddedoutofthecornerofhermouthtome.

I felt a small knot oftension that I hadn’t realizedwas there relax. Jennydidofcourse know that Henri-Christian had been born a

dwarf—but knowing andseeing are sometimesdifferent things. Clearly theyhadn’tbeen,forJenny.

Mrs. Figg had beenfollowing this account withinterest, but maintained herreserve. At mention of theprintshop, though, thisreservehardenedabit.

“These folk—Marsali isyourdaughter,then,ma’am?”I could tell what she wasthinking. The entire town of

Philadelphiaknew that Jamiewas a rebel—and, byextension,sowasI.Itwasthethreat ofmy imminent arrestthathadcausedJohntoinsistuponmymarryinghiminthewakeof the tumult followingJamie’s presumed death.Themention of printing inBritish-occupied Philadelphiawas bound to raise questionsas to just what was beingprinted,andbywhom.

“No, her husband is my

brother’sadoptedson,”Jennyexplained. “But I raisedFergus from a wee ladmyself,sohe’smyfosterson,aswell,bytheHighlandwayofreckoning.”

Mrs. Figg blinked. Shehad been gamely trying tokeep thecastofcharacters insome sort of order to thispoint,butnowgaveitupwithashakeofherheadthatmadethe pink ribbons on her capwavelikeantennae.

“Well,wherethedevil—Imean, where on earth hasyour brother gone with hislordship?” she demanded.“To this printshop, youthink?”

Jenny and I exchangedglances.

“Idoubtit,”Isaid.“Morelikely he’s gone outside thecity, using John—er, hislordship, I mean—as ahostage to get past thepickets, if necessary.

Probably he’ll let him go assoonthey’refarenoughawayforsafety.”

Mrs. Figg made a deephumming noise ofdisapproval.

“And maybe he’ll makeforValleyForgeandturnhimovertotherebelsinstead.”

“Oh,Ishouldnathinkso,”Jennysaidsoothingly.“Whatwould they want with him,afterall?”

Mrs. Figg blinked again,

takenabackatthenotionthatanyone might not value hislordship to the same degreethat she did, but after amoment’slip-pursingallowedasthismightbeso.

“He wasn’t in hisuniform, was he, ma’am?”sheaskedme,browfurrowed.Ishookmyhead.Johndidn’thold an active commission.He was a diplomat, thoughtechnically still lieutenant-colonel of his brother’s

regiment, and thereforeworehis uniform for purposes ofceremonyorintimidation,buthewasofficiallyretiredfromthe army, not a combatant,andinplainclotheshewouldbetakenascitizenratherthansoldier—thusofnoparticularinterest to GeneralWashington’s troops atValleyForge.

I didn’t think Jamie washeaded for Valley Forge inany case. I knew, with

absolute certainty, that hewould come back. Here. Forme.

Thethoughtbloomedlowin my belly and spreadupward in awaveofwarmththat made me bury my nosein my teacup to hide theresultingflush.

Alive.Icaressedtheword,cradlingitinthecenterofmyheart. Jamie was alive. Gladas I was to see Jenny—andgladderstilltoseeherextend

an olive branch in mydirection—I really wanted togo up tomy room, close thedoor, and lean against thewallwithmyeyes shut tight,reliving the seconds afterhe’d entered the room,whenhe’dtakenmeinhisarmsandkissed me, the simple, solid,warm fact of his presence sooverwhelming that I mighthavecollapsedonto the floorwithouthisarms’support.

Alive, I repeated silently

tomyself.He’salive.Nothing else mattered.

Though I did wonder brieflywhathe’ddonewithJohn.