Renaud ushered in an elderly Parisian in a neat black suit, the scent of the Tombs still hanging faintly about his clothes. LeBlanc stood, his politeness oily.

“Dr. Johannes,” he said. “Thank you for coming so early. Please, sit.” He gestured to Renaud, who brought a wooden chair before LeBlanc’s desk, the same chair Gerard had used ten days earlier.

“I’ll admit it was a surprise to be asked,” replied the doctor, who had woken to four gendarmes breaking down his door. He sat stiffly, mouth in a straight line. LeBlanc smoothed the long, black, white-collared robes he now wore instead of a jacket, positioning them so as not to wrinkle when he slid into place behind the desk.

“And what is your opinion of the prisoner?”

“A little dehydrated, nothing that access to water would not correct, and crawling with vermin, which is no different than the others. There is significant bruising, and three ribs on the right side are broken. I have wrapped them, and he will need to be still and left strictly alone if he is to walk upright, especially with the leg.”

“And what about the leg, Doctor?”

“A bad break that did not set well. Nearly two years ago, according to him, and that seems right. Still gives him a good deal of pain, I am sure.”

LeBlanc’s fingers tapped the desk. “So in your opinion, Dr. Johannes, could a man with a leg such as the prisoner’s perform … certain tasks? Sword fighting, for instance? Jumping, running, or climbing a wall?”

“There is nothing wrong with the arms, but anything that involves agile movement of the legs is in my opinion impossible. The limb will not bear the weight.”

“Could the prisoner walk without the limp? Even for a short distance?”

“No. The leg is physically shorter now, after the injury.”

“And the more recent cut? It was made by a sword?”

“If so, it was a small and dull one. There is no infection, though how that’s so I cannot say. But the edges of the skin are ragged, not clean. I’d say a knife. Serrated.”

“Like a table knife.”

“Just so. I have wrapped that wound as well.”

LeBlanc glanced toward the back of the room, where Renaud stood along the wall, his long face impassive, then at the doctor, grim and assured of his facts, hands on the bag of medical tools in his lap. LeBlanc smiled.

“Thank you, Doctor. Just one more question, to appease a little curiosity of mine. Some of these tasks we were discussing, could the more … arduous of them, could they be performed by a woman?”

“They could be done by anyone with the proper strength.”

“Even sword fighting, Doctor?”

“Size and muscular development make a difference, of course, but both the male and the female respond to training, Monsieur.”

“And the mental training that goes with such skills? The agility of the mind?”

“No difference under the sun.”

“I see. And others in your profession, would they say the same?”

The doctor, whose brows had gone up at the odd line of questioning, frowned now, confused. “Of course they would. Why shouldn’t they? The idea that women are not fit for certain tasks is based on cultural expectations, not the science of fact. It is an old-fashioned belief coming from the less civilized centuries after the Great Death, and has nothing to do with medicine. Any man of science knows that.”

“Oh, that is unlucky,” LeBlanc said. He waved a hand toward Renaud, who moved quietly forward. “Thank you, Doctor, for giving me so much to think on. Renaud will take care of you. And, Renaud, when you are done, I will need another message sent to our informant in the Commonwealth.”

LeBlanc drummed his fingers on the desk, contemplating one or two things he would have to say in his letter while Renaud came up behind the wooden chair and, with quick and silent efficiency, slit the doctor’s throat.

“Now, Mademoiselle,” René said, adjusting the angle of her body carefully as they stood in front of the sitting-room fire, the slanting rays of nethersun glowing through the filmy windows. He was in his linen shirtsleeves, the plain jacket tossed onto a chair, hair tied. “Hit with an open palm, and aim for here.”

He put her fingers against the lower edge of his cheek. She’d wondered what that would feel like. It prickled.

“Do not hold back,” he instructed. “There must be no doubt that we are having a fight of passion. That will be essential. Unless you are pulling on your wound?”

She shook her head. She was going to slap him with her right and her cut was on the left, but overall she thought this situation particularly unjust. What she wouldn’t have given to do this one week ago, and René was ruining it with sheer willingness.

“Hit him hard, Sophie,” Spear said, chuckling as he watched from the couch. Even Benoit had come to see, a man-shaped outline easy to overlook in the corner.

René waited, almost daring her, while she was trying to ignore the little pulse beating at the base of his throat. It was beating rather fast. She took a deep breath, pulled her arm back, and slapped. Her skin on his made a solid, but faint, smack.

“Oh, no,” René said, shaking his head. “I do not think you meant that.”

“And he would know when a woman slaps him and means it, Sophie, don’t you think?” said Spear, still chuckling. He put a hand to his shirt pocket, as if checking to see that something was still there.

René was looking over his shoulder toward the couch, an amused half smile on his face, and something about the expression put Sophia in mind of their Banns, and Lauren Rathbone, and that gaggle of women he had so expertly flirted with.

This time her slap turned his head.

“Ah,” René said after a moment, hand to his cheek. “That was much better.”

He rubbed his face, where a patch of skin was beginning to show the shape of her hand. Sophia would have sworn the blue fire in his eyes was pleased. She almost smiled before she could stop herself.

“This will be about the timing, I think,” he said. “You should come across the room, pause, step one, two, three, and hit. Let’s do that, Mademoiselle, without the hitting …”

They did it without, and then they did it with, adding dialogue, working for the actions to be automatic, for René to turn slightly just in time to deflect the worst of the blow, until Benoit could tell them the level of preparation was not obvious. René would accept no one else’s opinion on that subject. She was afraid she must be bruising his face, but René’s enthusiasm, she discovered, was a force of nature, not to be diminished or controlled. They kept at it.

Spear seemed to forget that there was a rehearsal going on, and it made him bold. He flattered her, shielded her when it wasn’t needed, sat too close when she let René’s cheek have a rest. “Staking a claim,” that had been Orla’s single comment in her ear. Sophia did not want to be “staked.” And René was aware of it, too. He kept giving her that knowing look, as he had that first night in the farmhouse, which made him much easier to hit. Especially when she called up the image of the way he had smiled at Lauren Rathbone’s smudgy eyes.

The candles had burned low before Benoit finally gave his blessing. Spear banked the fire, thoughtful, while Sophia trudged up the stairs, tired and with a hand on her side, Orla behind her. Benoit and René were both out of sight. Spear allowed himself a smile. Things were going well. Sophie seemed to like the farm, she’d sat with him on the couch, and she’d been slapping the stuffing out of Hasard. Since dusk. And he knew Sophia Bellamy well enough to see when there was anger on her face. She’d never been that good of an actress. He had nothing to fear from Hasard. The knowledge lifted a weight from his mind. Spear put the poker back in place, still smiling, checked his shirt pocket once more for the rustle of paper, then headed toward the kitchen to blow out the lamps.