"My daughter would speak to you next door, Doctor Bruno."

I waited, but nothing more was forthcoming, so I followed Adam through the door to the rector's private room, where Sophia and I had once talked of magic in what seemed like another age.

Now she stood alone by the fireplace, her hands resting on the back of one of the high-backed wooden chairs. Her long, dark hair was modestly tied back, though a few curling tendrils had escaped and hung about her face. There was still nothing about her figure, slight in a straight-bodiced dark-grey dress, to advertise her condition, save for perhaps a fullness about the bust, but her face seemed thinner, more pinched and drained, and her eyes were puffy with exhaustion and tears.

"The pursuivants caught up with us at a house in Abingdon," she said, without preamble, and though her face looked fragile, her voice was as clear and strong as always. "They asked Jerome what he was. He answered that he was a gentleman and a Christian. Then they tore off his shirt and saw his hair shirt." She hesitated for a moment to swallow hard, then took a deep breath and continued without looking at me, her voice steady again. "They arrested him as a traitor, shackled him, and took him away. I begged them to take me with him, but I was brought back to Oxford."

"They shackled you?" I asked, horrified.

"No. They were surprisingly gentle. But then I did not resist them. I was taken to the Castle prison," she said, finally raising her head and looking me in the eye, almost defiantly. Then she shook her head and seemed to crumple. "You cannot imagine it, Bruno, if you have not seen it. Or smelled it. People would not keep animals in such conditions. One low room they have for the poor women, with filthy straw over the floor that stinks of piss and shit, and the walls are so damp there is fungus growing there and the cold goes right inside your bones. I think I will feel that cold for the rest of my life."

"They put you in such a place? But did you not tell them of…?" I faltered and indicated my stomach. She gave a small bitter laugh.

"Yes, I told them, despite the damage to my honour. Jerome said that I should not speak if I were arrested, save to acknowledge my name. Yet I thought they might treat me with more gentleness than otherwise. But it seems it was all designed to frighten me. I was left in that hole for two hours, among the insane and the destitute, crowding around me, pulling at my clothes and hair, women covered in lice and sores and the stink of rotten flesh and human filth all around me-" Finally her voice cracked and I took a step toward her instinctively, wanting to put my arm around her, but she straightened up immediately and glared at me, and I realised with a guilty jolt that there was no comfort I could give: I was the enemy.

"Then what happened?" I prompted, trying to cover over my ill-judged show of emotion.

"My father arrived," she said, shaking her hair back. "They had sent for him. It seemed he had been told that I was arrested in the company of a notorious Jesuit, but that I had secretly handed over certain damning documents to the authorities, suggesting that my loyalty lay with the forces of Her Majesty's law after all. That being the case, and given the delicacy of my condition"-here she patted her own stomach with a sarcastic smile-"he was free to stand surety for my release."

"Then-you did not contradict them?"

"I presumed it was you who had told them the story about the letters," she said softly, her tone betraying neither gratitude nor anger. "You gave me a chance to escape, even at the last minute. And the sheriff did me a kindness, I think, in insisting I be thrown in the prison first. Had I not seen that, I might have been stubborn enough to insist on the truth, for Jerome's sake. But two hours in that pit-" She broke off and shuddered, her hand straying absently to her belly in a gesture of protection. "I feared that even in that short time I would catch the gaol fever-the air was so dank and full of poisons. And I was afraid for the child," she added, so quietly I could barely catch the words. "If its father must die, it should at least have the chance to live."

"I'm glad," I said, with feeling.

"I'm sure you are," she replied. "It would not have done for your masters to discover that you lied to save a Catholic whore, would it? You played your part very well, Bruno, I never suspected you. But then, you never suspected me, did you? So perhaps you are not so clever as you believe."

"I do not expect you to thank me," I whispered. "You have every reason to hate me. But I only ever acted out of care for you. He would have had you killed, Sophia, on the crossing to France, I know it."

"You say that only because Thomas put it in your head. Jerome would never have harmed me. He loves me." A sob caught in her throat and she turned her face away to swallow it down, determined that I should not see the weakness of tears.

"He loved his mission more," I said. "Well, it is fortunate that our opposing theories were never put to the test, and you are still alive."

"Fortunate? Oh yes, I am fortunate indeed," she said, her voice tight with bitterness. "I am to be banished by my family, the man I love will die in cruel pain and I will never see him again, the child I carry will be taken from me before I can even give it a name, and after that I will be interrogated by the authorities. If it pleases them not to detain me, I will be sent back to live with my aunt, perhaps in time to be married to some rough unlettered farmer or innkeeper, if one can be found who will overlook my sins. And who is the author of all this good fortune? Why, it is you, Bruno." Anger flashed for a moment in her beautiful amber eyes, but she was too defeated to sustain it, and the fierce light quickly died.

"Perhaps when you hold your child in your arms, even for a moment, you may hate me less," I said, looking steadily at her. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face and met my gaze.

"I do not hate you, Bruno," she said wearily. "I hate the world. I hate God. I hate religion and the way it makes men believe that they alone are right."

"You sound like Thomas Allen," I said, and instantly regretted what sounded like an attempt at levity. To my surprise, though, she gave a weak smile.

"And we have seen where that may lead. Poor, poor Thomas. No, life is too short for hating."

"Your faith will not survive interrogation, then?"

She almost laughed then, her face briefly lighting up.

"My faith, as you call it, was only ever a way to please him. I would have worshipped the moon and the sun and sacrificed a cockerel to the Devil at midnight if that would have made him love me better."

"I well remember-you asked my advice on it once," I said. "But I would advise you not to say as much when you are interviewed."

"No, Bruno." She shook her head. "Have no fear for me on that account. When I saw that gaol today, I knew without doubt that I could never endure years in such a place for love of the pope. For Jerome, yes, but he would not be here to appreciate it, would he? And the child must survive. That is all that matters now." She fell silent then and stared down at her folded hands for a long while. I didn't dare to move. Eventually she reached into a pocket sewn into her dress and drew out a folded scrap of paper. Stepping across the room toward me, she took my bandaged right hand and pressed the paper into it, holding my hand between hers for a few moments while she looked intently into my eyes. Despite everything, my heart gave a foolish jolt and I was seized by a desire to take her in my arms. The cruelty of the fate that she described reminded me painfully once again of Morgana; I had sentenced a young woman of spirit and beauty to be crushed beneath the wheels of propriety and the injustice of it clutched at my heart. I still clung to the belief that I had saved Sophia's life, but I would always live with a tiny kernel of doubt: What if Jerome Gilbert really had meant to escort her to safety in France? I would never be wholly sure and neither would she; that uncertainty bound us together, and I felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility for her. If there was anything I could do to help her now, I determined that I would not let her down again.