And unto dust thou shalt return.

But I had come back from the dead. Only Jamie’s hold on my body had been strong enough to pull me back from that final barrier, and Master Raymond had known it. I knew that only Jamie himself could pull me back the rest of the way, into the land of the living. That was why I had run from him, done all I could to keep him away, to make sure he would never come near me again. I had no wish to come back, no desire to feel again. I didn’t want to know love, only to have it ripped away once more.

But it was too late. I knew that, even as I fought to hold the gray shroud around me. Fighting only hastened its dissolution; it was like grasping shreds of cloud, that vanished in cold mist between my fingers. I could feel the light coming, blinding and searing.

He had risen, was standing over me. His shadow fell across my knees; surely that meant the cloud had broken; a shadow doesn’t fall without light.

“Claire,” he whispered. “Please. Let me give ye comfort.”

“Comfort?” I said. “And how will you do that? Can you give me back my child?”

He sank to his knees before me, but I kept my head down, staring into my upturned hands, laid empty on my lap. I felt his movement as he reached to touch me, hesitated, drew back, reached again.

“No,” he said, his voice scarcely audible. “No, I canna do that. But… with the grace of God… I might give ye another?”

His hand hovered over mine, close enough that I felt the warmth of his skin. I felt other things as well: the grief that he held tight under rein, the anger and the fear that choked him, and the courage that made him speak in spite of it. I gathered my own courage around me, a flimsy substitute for the thick gray shroud. Then I took his hand and lifted my head, and looked full into the face of the sun.

We sat, hands clasped and pressed together on the bench, unmoving, unspeaking, for what seemed like hours, with the cool rain-breeze whispering our thoughts in the grape leaves above. Water drops scattered over us with the passing of the wind, weeping for loss and separation.

“You’re cold,” Jamie murmured at last, and pulled a fold of his cloak around me, bringing with it the warmth of his skin. I came slowly against him under its shelter, shivering more at the startling solidness, the sudden heat of him, than from the cold.

I laid my hand on his chest, tentative as though the touch of him might burn me in truth, and so we sat for a good while longer, letting the grape leaves talk for us.

“Jamie,” I said softly, at last. “Oh, Jamie. Where were you?”

His arm tightened about me, but it was some time before he answered.

“I thought ye were dead, mo duinne,” he said, so softly I could hardly hear him above the rustling of the arbor.

“I saw ye there – on the ground, at the last. God! Ye were so white, and your skirts all soaked wi’ blood… I tried to go to ye, Claire, so soon as I saw – I ran to ye, but it was then the Guard took me.”

He swallowed hard; I could feel the tremor pass down him, through the long curve of his backbone.

“I fought them… I fought, and aye I pleaded… but they wouldna stay, and they carried me awa’ wi’ them. And they put me in a cell, and left me there… thinking ye were dead, Claire; knowing that I’d killed you.”

The fine tremor went on, and I knew he was weeping, though I could not see his face above me. How long had he sat alone in the dark of the Bastille, alone but for the scent of blood and the empty husk of vengeance?

“It’s all right,” I said, and pressed my hand harder against his chest, as though to still the hasty beating of his heart. “Jamie, it’s all right. It… it wasn’t your fault.”

“I tried to bash my head against the wall – only to stop thinking,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “So they tied me, hand and foot. And next day, de Rohan found me, and told me that ye lived, though likely not for long.”

He was silent then, but I could feel the pain inside him, sharp as crystal spears of ice.

“Claire,” he murmured at last. “I am sorry.”

I am sorry. The words were those of the note he had left me, before the world shattered. But now I understood them.

“I know,” I said. “Jamie, I know. Fergus told me. I know why you went.”

He drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“Aye, well…” he said, and stopped.

I let my hand fall to his thigh; chilled and damp from the rain, his riding breeches were rough under my palm.

“Did they tell you – when they let you go – why you were released?” I tried to keep my own breathing steady, but failed.

His thigh tensed under my hand, but his voice was under better control now.

“No,” he said. “Only that it was… His Majesty’s pleasure.” The word “pleasure” was ever so faintly underlined, spoken with a delicate ferocity that made it abundantly clear that he did indeed know the means of his release, whether the warders had told him or not.

I bit my lower lip hard, trying to make up my mind what to tell him now.

“It was Mother Hildegarde,” he went on, voice steady. “I went at once to L’Hôpital des Anges, in search of you. And found Mother Hildegarde, and the wee note ye’d left for me. She… told me.”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing. “I went to see the King…”

“I know!” His hand tightened on mine, and from the sound of his breathing, I could tell that his teeth were clenched together.

“But Jamie… when I went…”

“Christ!” he said, and sat up suddenly, turning to face me. “Do ye not know what I… Claire.” He closed his eyes briefly, and took a deep breath. “I rode all the way to Orvieto, seeing it; seeing his hands on the white of your skin, his lips on your neck, his – his cock – I saw it at the lever – I saw the damn filthy, stubby thing sliding up… God, Claire! I sat in prison thinking ye dead, and then I rode to Spain, wishing to Christ ye were!”

The knuckles of the hand holding mine were white, and I could feel the small bones of my fingers crackle in his grip.

I jerked my hand free.

“Jamie, listen to me!”

“No!” he said. “No, I dinna want to hear…”

“Listen, damn you!”

There was enough force in my voice to shut him up for an instant, and while he was mute, I began rapidly to tell him the story of the King’s chamber; the hooded men, and the shadowed room, the sorcerers’ duel, and the death of the Comte St. Germain.

As I talked, the high color faded from his wind-brisked cheeks, and his expression softened from anguish and fury to bewilderment, and gradually, to astonished belief.

“Jesus,” he breathed at last. “Oh, holy God.”

“Didn’t know what you were starting with that silly story, did you?” I felt exhausted, but managed a smile. “So… so the Comte… it’s all right, Jamie. He’s… gone.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, but drew me gently to him, so my forehead rested on his shoulder, and my tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt. After a minute, though, I sat up, and stared at him, wiping my nose.

“I just thought, Jamie! The port – Charles Stuart’s investment! If the Comte is dead…”

He shook his head, smiling faintly.

“No, mo duinne. It’s safe.”

I felt a flood of relief.

“Oh, thank God. You managed, then? Did the medicines work on Murtagh?”

“Well, no,” he said, the smile broadening, “but they did on me.”

Relieved at once of fear and anger, I felt light-headed, and half-giddy. The smell of the rain-swept grapes was strong and sweet, and it was a blessed relief to lean against him, feeling his warmth as comfort, not as threat, as I listened to the story of the port-wine piracy.

“There are men that are born to the sea, Sassenach,” he began, “but I’m afraid I’m no one of them.”

“I know,” I said. “Were you sick?”

“I have seldom been sicker,” he assured me wryly.

The seas off Orvieto had been rough, and within an hour it became clear that Jamie was not going to be able to carry out his original part in the plan.