At first I was disorientated. The room-a storeroom annex to the cellarium, hastily reconverted into a cell for the first time since the black friars-was so like the cellar in Épinal that for a time I wondered whether the past five years had not been a dream, my mind’s attempt to play its fleeting sanity like a fish on a line, reeling it inward and inward until understanding breaks the surface.

Giordano’s cards were enough to confirm their suspicions. I wish now that I had paid more attention to their warning; to the Hermit, with his subtle smile and cloaked lantern; to the Deuce of Cups, love and forgetfulness; to the Tower aflame. It is past noon now, and the storeroom is dark except for half a dozen slices of sunlight against the back wall from the ventilation slats, too high to reach, in any case too small to present any hope of escape.

I have not wept. Perhaps some part of me expected his betrayal. I cannot even say that I feel sorrow-or even fear. Five years have sown a kind of serenity. A coldness. I think of Fleur at noon tomorrow, waiting by the tamarisks.

This was once a cell, I realize. Today it reverts to its original function. The black friars once did penance in such cells, hidden from the daylight, their food pushed through a narrow slot in the door, the air rank with the stink of prayers and guilt.

I will not pray. Besides I do not know to whom I should do so. My Goddess is a blasphemy, my Marie-de-la-mer lost to the sea. I can hear the surf from here, carried across the marshes by the west wind. Will she remember me? Will Fleur grow with my face in her heart, as I kept my own mother’s image close to my own? Or will she be the child of strangers, unwanted or worse-to grow to love them as her own, to be grateful, glad to be rid of me?

The thought is useless. I try to regain my serenity, but her image troubles me too much. My heart aches for her touch. Once more, I ask Marie-de-la-mer. Whatever it costs me, once more. My Fleur. My daughter. It is not any prayer Giordano would understand, but it is a prayer nevertheless.

Time’s black rosary counts the interminable seconds.

I think I slept. The darkness and the hush of the surf lulled me, and for a time I dreamed. Bright images pranced by me: Germaine, Clémente, Alfonsine, Antoine…The snakeskin-silvery scar on LeMerle’s shoulder, the smile in his eyes.

Trust me, Juliette.

My daughter’s red dress, the scrape on her knee, the way she laughed and clapped at the players in the dusty sunlight a thousand years ago. I awoke to find the slices of sunlight high up on the wall, reddened as the sun began its descent. Feeling refreshed in spite of everything, I rose to look about me. The room still smelt of the vinegar and preserves that had been kept there; in a clearing space a pickle jar had been broken and a damp patch remained on the earthen floor, redolent of clove and garlic. I searched the floor, thinking perhaps to find a sliver of glass overlooked in their haste, but there was nothing. In any case I do not know what I would have done with it if there had been one; the thought of my blood on the earth, mingling perhaps with the aloes and vinegar of the spilled pickles, revolted me. Tentatively I touched the walls of my cell. These were stone, the good gray granite of the region, which sparkles with mica in sunlight but in shadow looks almost black. There were indentations scratched into the stone, I realized, short, even marks chiseled at intervals in the granite that my fingertips discovered in the semidarkness: five marks, then a neat cross stroke; five marks, then another. Some brother had perhaps tried to mark his time in this way, I realized, covering half the wall with the orderly down-and-cross strokes of his days, his months.

I went to the door. It was locked, of course, the heavy wooden panels banded with iron. A metal hatchway-secured from the outside-might serve as a means to deliver my meals. I listened at the door but could hear nothing to indicate whether or not anyone kept watch over the prisoner. Why should they? I was safe enough.

Daylight waned until it was nothing but a purplish blur. My eyes, accustomed to the dim light, could still make out the shapes of the door, the twilit pallor of the ventilation slats, a heap of flour sacks that had been left in a corner to serve as bedding, a wooden bucket in the opposite corner. Without my wimple-it had been removed when I was led here, as was the cross at the breast of my habit-I felt oddly estranged from myself, a creature from a different time. Yet this l’Ailée was cold, and her quick calculation of time was like that of a mariner measuring the approach of a coming storm, not that of a prisoner awaiting the hours to execution. In spite of everything there was still power to be had, to be used, if only I knew how.

Interesting, that no one had come to speak to me. Strangest of all that LeMerle should not have come-to justify himself, or to gloat. Seven rang, then eight. The sisters would be making their way to Vespers.

Was this, then, what he had planned? Was I to be removed from the scene until his game-whatever it was-had been played out? Was I still a danger to him? And if so, how?

I was roused from my meditations by a rattling at the door. There was a clang as the spy hole was flung open, then a clattering as something was thrust through, bouncing noisily off the hard floor as it fell. I saw no light at the spy hole, heard no voice as the metal hatch was locked again from the outside. I felt on the ground for the object that had been pushed through and had little difficulty in finding a wooden plate, from which a piece of bread had rolled.

“Wait!” I stood up, the plate in my hand. “Who’s there?”

No response. Not even the sound of footsteps receding. I concluded that whoever it was must be waiting behind the door, listening.

“Antoine? Is that you?”

I could hear her breathing behind the metal trap. Five years’ worth of nights in the dorter had taught me to recognize and identify the sounds of breathing. These short, asthmatic breaths were not Antoine’s. I guessed it was Tomasine.

“Soeur Tomasine.” My guess was correct. I heard an indrawn shriek, stifled against a forearm. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I won’t-” The voice was almost inaudible, a high whimper in the dark. “I won’t let you out!”

“That’s all right,” I whispered. “I’m not asking you to.”

Tomasine paused for a second. “What then?” The high note was still in her voice. “I’m-I’m not supposed to talk to you. I’m not supposed to-look at you.”

“In case of what?” I said scornfully. “In case I fly through the hole? Or send an imp to leap down your throat?”

She whimpered again.

“Believe me,” I said, “if I could do any of those things, would I still be here?”

A silence as she digested that. “Père Colombin lit a brazier. Demons can’t pass through the smoke.” She swallowed convulsively. “I can’t stay. I-”

“Wait!”

But it was too late. I heard her footsteps recede into darkness.

“Damn.”

And yet it was enough to begin with. LeMerle wanted me hidden, had frightened poor Tomasine so badly that she did not even dare to speak to me. What was it he wanted to conceal? And from whom-the bishop, or myself?

I paced the cell after that, forcing myself to eat the bread Tomasine left me, though it was dry and I had never been less hungry. I heard the bell chime for Vigils, then Lauds. I had maybe six hours. To do what? Pacing, I asked myself the question. There was no means of escape. No one would help me, even though there was no one posted at my cell door. No one dared disobey Père Colombin. Unless-no. If Perette were going to come, she would have done so already. I had lost her the day in the barn, lost her to LeMerle and his trinkets. I was a fool to believe that she, of all people, might help me. The clear gold-ringed eyes were witless as a sparrow’s, pitiless as a hawk’s. She would not come.