“Rathbone,” Sophia supplied, as if she hadn’t already said the name at least ten times. “I assume you’ve met Monsieur’s mother, Madame Hasard?”

Madame said, “I fear that things have not turned out as we had hoped in that regard, Mrs. Rathbone.”

Poor woman, Sophia thought, looking at Madame. How hard she must be wishing that lie was true.

“I see.” Mrs. Rathbone turned back to Sophia. She was sweating just a bit.

“So,” Sophia said, turning the tables, “not that I would wish to get too personal, either, Mrs. Rathbone, but do you have that kind of money? To buy Bellamy House?”

“Oh, I’ve been putting it by. Your father is … Your father was a very dear friend, and I would be very happy to do his children a service. Think on it, Miss Bellamy.”

“I’ll have to speak to Tom, of course.”

“Of course. Shall we say until tomorrow? That should give us time to make any arrangements before … well, you know.”

After Mrs. Rathbone was gone, Madame Hasard had said, “Will you take the offer, Miss Bellamy? Because I would advise that you do. I would advise it strongly …”

Sophia slipped down lower in the tub, keeping the cut on her arm free of the water. She’d felt like giving Madame some advice of her own, but it was advice that Madame would probably rather not follow. She hadn’t mentioned any of it to Tom in the end. Or at least not yet. He’d gone straight into hiding at the farm, and maybe the extra day or two that the sheriff couldn’t find him would give Émile and René the time they needed to dig up a miracle.

It was when Sophia was in her dressing gown, leaning against the stone casement of her window, drying her hair with a towel, that she saw someone walking furtively across the clipped grass of the lawn. She straightened, blew out her candle, and opened the window slightly to get a better view. She knew only one person who would be tottering in heels across a lawn with a covered lantern. Madame Hasard. She watched as the woman picked her way carefully through the grass, stealing around the corner of the empty print house.

Sophia slipped on her boots, half tied them, flung on a coat, and looked out again. The bottom floor of the print house was a large, open space, and now there was a dim light passing from window to window. She unlatched her own window, swung her legs out, and stepped onto the tiles, this time going up and over her gable rather than sliding down. The air was sharp, biting on her damp head, and she knew by feel that a wintry fog would be on the ground by dawn. She also knew her route, light unneeded. A quick climb, around another gable, and to the flat place between the rooflines that gave an excellent view of the lawns. She was almost unsurprised to see another figure already sitting there.

“What are you doing?”

René looked over his shoulder. “Watching my maman. And you?”

“Watching your maman.”

She saw half of his grin in the dark. She could also see that he’d come more prepared than she had. Two sets of blankets, one to sit on, the other for covering up. The top layer was now being held open for her. “Come here to me,” he said.

She came, settling into her usual place between his body and arm. But as he began to wrap the blanket around her, René said, “Is your hair wet?” He muttered something in Parisian and pulled the blanket over both their heads without waiting for an answer, scooting her down until they were covered full length, and she was using his arm for a pillow. It was impenetrable blackness under the blanket, much warmer, and very full of René.

“I am discovering that you require much taking care of, my love.” He ran a hand along her arm, where there was a bandage underneath, and then the curve of her side, where one end of her stitches had been. His voice was low, and very close. “Are you well?”

“Not particularly. Though better at this moment.” They hadn’t been completely alone since the linen closet, and he was distracting her from pain. She found the cut she’d put on his lip by feel in the darkness.

“You smell of cinnamon,” he whispered.

He kissed her once, twice, and then he did not stop. She pulled him in, this time with handfuls of his hair, again pinned by his weight, this time to the blanket and the roof tiles beneath, the noise in his chest resonating in hers. He took his mouth away abruptly and put his forehead on the blanket beside her head.

“Why,” he asked, voice rough, “are we always on a roof?”

“I’m thinking of climbing one every day,” she breathed. She felt him smile in the dark. He lifted his head, and she began very softly kissing the fading bruises on his neck, or at least where she thought they were. The pulse at the base of his throat beat hard against her lips.

“You … are driving me mad,” he said. “And you make me forget what I came for.” He reached up and peeked over the edge of the blanket without interrupting her, then pulled it back over their heads. “The light is in the second floor now,” he said. The blast of cold air had been startling. It had become very warm inside their universe beneath the blanket. She laid her head back on the blanket, stroking his hair.

“You came to get me.”

She couldn’t see his expression when he said, “I will always come for you. Do you believe that?”

“Yes.”

“You belong with me.”

“Yes.”

“And you will stay with me?”

“Yes,” she said. But she didn’t know how to. He rolled onto his side, holding her cheek against his chest.

“What do you think she is doing?” he asked. He was referring to his mother.

“I was hoping you’d know.”

“I do not know anything. She would have died before she signed that paper for LeBlanc. I know it. So why did she? And why push a marriage only to reject you now? What has changed? It makes no sense.”

“Did you ask her why?”

“Oh, yes.” He chose not to elaborate on the answer. “She has called a meeting of the family tomorrow, at highsun, in your dining room. I told her that Émile and Andre and I could not come, that we had a field to dig, but she insists. I would think we will be discussing what the family does next.”

“René,” Sophia said. “If you could be anywhere you wanted, do anything you wanted, what would it be? Where would you go?”

He propped himself up on one arm, thoughtful, holding up the blanket with his head. “I would be in the Sunken City, I think, where there was no revolution, sitting around the table in the flat with my uncles. And you would be there, seated well away from Émile, and we would be making plans for our next trip to liberate an artifact from the melters.”

“Our trip? You mean you and your uncles’?”

“No. This is my fantasy, and in my fantasy you would wish to come. You would, would you not?”

“Of course. Now go on. We’re about to go nick things.”

“So we lay out our plans, and our plans would go almost right, but not quite, though we would acquire our item in the end, and then we would hand it over to Benoit and Émile and go … somewhere else. For a time.”

She leaned up, trying to see the hot blue of his eyes in the darkness beneath the blanket. “Somewhere else?”

“I think so. I enjoy the game, but it would be good to know I do not have to play it, not all the time. Not if I do not want to.” He ran a hand over her damp head. “Tomorrow at highsun I am going to tell Maman that I am not going back to the city. That you and I will see your forger and that we will go to Spain, where they do not look at papers with such a close eye. What do you think of that, my love?”

“That you have no interest in living in Spain, and neither do I.”

“Ah, but I am very interested in living there with you. Come with me, Sophia. We will take Tom with us, so the Commonwealth will not find him.”

She thought of Madame with her perfect hair and pursed lips, and it occurred to her that a woman did not often rise to the place that Madame Hasard had, and she certainly did not do it by indulging in petty dissatisfactions. The woman had some sort of private agenda, and it was not about her son. It was about Sophia, and it was personal.