“Grafton Street,” he commanded.

Then why was there such a heaviness inside him, a sense of loss all over again?

It must be Hermione. The disillusion over her would surely hurt for a long time; that was only natural. He had thought he had found love, gentleness, sweetness- Damn! Don't be idiotic! He did not want sweetness. It stuck in his teeth and cloyed his tongue. God in heaven! How far he must have forgotten his own nature to have imagined Hermione was his happiness. And now he was further betraying himself by becoming maudlin over it.

But by the time the cab set him down in Grafton Street some better, more honest self admitted there was a place for tenderness, the love that overlooks error, that cherishes weakness and protects it, that thinks of self last, and gives even when the thanks are slow in corning or do not come at all, for generosity of spirit, laughter without cruelty or victory. And he still had little idea where to find it-even in himself.

The first witness of the next day was Valentine Furnival. For all his height, and already broadening shoulders, he looked very young and his high head could not hide his fear.

The crowd buzzed with excitement as he climbed the steps of the witness stand and turned to face the court. Hester felt a lurch almost like sickness as she saw his face and recognized in it exactly what Damaris must have seen-an echo of Charles Hargrave.

Instinctively she turned her head to see if Hargrave was in the gallery again, and if he had seen the same thing, knowing now that Damaris was the boy's mother. As soon as she saw him, his skin white, his eyes shocked, almost unfocused, she knew beyond question that he understood. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave sat a little apart, facing first Valentine on the stand, then her husband next to her. She did not even try to seek Damaris Erskine.

In spite of herself, Hester was moved to pity; for Sarah it was easy, but for Hargrave it twisted and hurt, because it was touched with anger.

The judge began by questioning Valentine for a few moments about his understanding of the oath, then turned to Rathbone and told him to commence.

“Did you know General Thaddeus Carlyon, Valentine?” he asked quite conversationally, as if they had been alone in some withdrawing room, not in the polished wood of a courtroom with hundreds of people listening, craning to catch every word and every inflexion.

Valentine swallowed on a dry throat.

“Yes.”

“Did you know him well?”

A slight hesitation. “Yes.”

“For a long time? Do you know how long?”

“Yes, since I was about six: seven years or more.”

“So you must have known him when he sustained the knife injury to his thigh? Which happened in your home.”

Not one person in the entire court moved or spoke. The silence was total.

“Yes.”

Rathbone took a step closer to him.

“How did it happen, Valentine? Or perhaps I should say, why?”

Valentine stared at him, mute, his face so pale it occurred to Monk, watching him, that he might feint.

In the gallery Damaris leaned over the rail, her eyes desperate. Peverell put his hand over hers.

“If you tell the truth,” Rathbone said gently,”there is no need to be afraid. The court will protect you.”

The judge drew a breath, as if about to protest, then apparently changed his mind.

Lovat-Smith said nothing.

The jury were motionless to a man.

“I stabbed him,” Valentine said almost in a whisper.

In the second row from the front Maxim Furnival covered his face with his hands. Beside him Louisa bit her nails. Alexandra put her hands over her mouth as if to stifle a cry.

“You must have had a very profound reason for such an act,” Rathbone prompted. “It was a deep wound. He could have bled to death, if it had severed an artery.”

“I-” Valentine gasped.

Rathbone had miscalculated. He had frightened him too much. He saw it immediately.

“But of course you did not,” he said quickly. “It was merely embarrassing-and I'm sure painful.”

Valentine looked wretched.

“Why did you do it, Valentine?” Rathbone said very gently. “You must have had a compelling reason-something that justified striking out in such a way.”

Valentine was on the edge of tears and it took him some moments to regain his composure.

Monk ached for him, remembering his own youth, the desperate dignity of thirteen, the manhood which was so close, and yet so far away.

“Mrs. Carlyon's life may depend upon what you say,” Rathbone urged.

For once neither Lovat-Smith nor the judge reproved him for such a breach.

“I couldn't bear it any longer,” Valentine replied in a husky voice, so low the jury had to strain to hear him. “I begged him, but he wouldn't stop!”

“So in desperation you defended yourself?” Rathbone asked. His clear, precise voice carried in the silence, even though it was as low as if they were alone in a small room.

“Yes.”

“Stop doing what?”

Valentine said nothing. His face was suddenly painfully hot as the blood rushed up, suffusing his skin.

“If it hurts too much to say, may I say it for you?” Rathbone asked him. “Was the general sodomizing you?”

Valentine nodded very slightly, just a bare inch or two movement of the head.

Maxim Furnival let out a stifled cry.

The judge turned to Valentine.

“You must speak, so that there can be no error in our understanding,” he said with great gentleness. “Simply yes or no will do. Is Mr. Rathbone correct?”

“Yes sir.” It was a whisper.

“I see. Thank you. I assure you, there will be no action taken against you for the injury to General Carlyon. It was self-defense and no crime in any sense. A person is allowed to defend their lives, or their virtue, with no fault attached whatever. You have the sympathy of all present here. We are outraged on your behalf.”

“How old were you when this began?” Rathbone went on, after a brief glance at the judge, and a nod from him.

“Six-I think,” Valentine answered. There was a long sigh around the room, and an electric shiver of rage. Damaris sobbed and Peverell held her. There was a swelling rumble of fury around the gallery and a juror groaned.

Rathbone was silent for a moment; it seemed he was too appalled to continue immediately.

“Six years old,” Rathbone repeated, in case anyone had foiled to hear. “And did it continue after you stabbed the general?”

“No-no, he stopped.”

“And at that time his own son would be… how old?”

“Cassian?” Valentine swayed and caught hold of the railing. He was ashen.

“About six?” Rathbone asked, his voice hoarse.

Valentine nodded.

This time no one asked him to speak. Even the judge was white-faced.

Rathbone turned away and walked a pace or two, his hands hi his pockets, before swinging around and looking up at Valentine again.

“Tell me, Valentine, why did you not appeal to your parents over this appalling abuse? Why did you not tell your mother? Surely that is the most natural thing for a small child to do when he is hurt and frightened? Why did you not do that in the beginning, instead of suffering all those years?”

Valentine looked down, his eyes full of misery.

“Could your mother not have helped you?” Rathbone persisted. “After all, the general was not your father. It would have cost them his friendship, but what was that worth, compared with you, her son? She could have forbidden him the house. Surely your father would have horsewhipped a man for such a thing?”

Valentine looked up at the judge, his eyes brimming with tears.

“You must answer,” the judge said gravely. “Did your father abuse you also?”

“No!” There was no mistaking the amazement and the honesty in his voice and his startled face. “No! Never!”