Upon his return on Tuesday, Menning supplied a letter from my grandmother to me despite only a week having passed. There had been no attempt to conceal that the letter had been opened and read but upon this fact I made no comment, much to Menning's visible relief. The letter contained within the tragic news that my grandmother had taken a turn for the worst and the doctor had given her less than a month to live. She begged that I might come to visit for she could not bear the thought that she might never see me, her dearest grandchild, ever again in this life. She was so weak she was unable to draw more than three flowers at the top of the page and even those were shaky (for there was no need for use of a secret code at this moment except that it might maintain the facade).

Upon reading this message I burst into tears, recalling to mind the plaintive cries of Freddie at his mother's funeral that the effect might bear the ring of truth. The thought, still a raw wound, proved so effective I was unable to stop weeping even when comforted in the arms of my fiance and I was taken to my room, inconsolable. Apparently, the display had been so effective a number of our acquaintances called to inquire as to my well-being, including, I was surprised to discover, Monsieur Du Beauchene, who never left the workshop for any reason but that it were required of him. Given my state of prolonged agitation, it was eventually decided that Menning should take me to Munster the following day for fear that if any delay were exercised I might work myself into a fit. The following morning was too rainy for travel, but by afternoon it had cleared enough that the journey might be chanced. We were offered a cart, but I declined claiming that I was well enough for a prolonged ride and the occupation might clear my mind. We were given a pretty pair of warmbloods (probably rottalers though my familiarity with the breed is scant enough to leave me uncertain) for the journey.

And long it was! Menning did not wish me to strain myself and thus held us at an ambling gait for much of the ride. We were approaching our fourth hour on horseback by the time Munster came into view. My grandmother's maid greeted me at the door and my grandmother, so very glad to see me well, managed to stagger from her bed and embrace me. She then invited Menning to stay for supper, but he declined, for it was already late and he still had a few miles more before he would reach the Kaiser's farm. He promised he would return on Saturday to bring me back to the village. From the door we waved him off until he had disappeared over the hill.

"Mr. Harriman asked me to give you his regards," the old lady said with a wink.

"Tell him I am eternally grateful for all of his help," I answered, saddling the horse I had only just unsaddled.

"Nonsense! If it wasn't for your bravery I would not have my grand-nephew at all. It is the least we can do. And please thank Mr. Bond for the tea cakes, they were delicious. He really is such a good man. He never ceases to thank me either. All for lying in bed and taking the occasional visitor! And for all he does for us. He fixed the leak in the roof just the other week and he never misses a Sunday dinner. It's as though I have a second son, but this one does not live in Berlin." She laughed.

I smiled as I thought of Roger performing the duties of a doting son. "Yes. I will tell him."

"Now off with you while you still have the light. I know he is impatient to see you." She gave the horse a slap on the hindquarters and we were off.

The ride to our cottage was thankfully short and quickly accomplished now that I was allowed to ride at a more reasonable pace. I saw Roger in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat hanging loose, working on something out in the yard. It was quite tall. Coming closer I could see it was an ancient plank door upon which was painted the outline of a man that he was nailing to a post.

"James, what are you doing?" I called out.

He leaned an arm against the corner of the plank, letting the hammer swing lazily at his side. He regarded me with his typical dashing grin, "You can't learn to shoot just aiming at circles all day. What do you think? I'm thinking of calling him "Franz"."

I could not miss the implication of the name. Clearly, that was an old wound that had not yet even begun to heal. "I think "Franz" might be a bit on the tall side."

"Well, it was not as though I had a great many models to choose from. You'll learn to adapt. Have you discovered anything that might be helpful?"

I nodded, "Marigold Lee."

"Who is Marigold Lee?"

"Our key to finding Veena."

"I'll put the kettle on."

Roger passed me a cup of tea which I put to the side where a second cup, only sampled stood cold, as I sat at the table pouring through ship's passenger manifests. He took the seat across from me, took an obligatory sip and continued to leaf through the records.

"Marigold Lee! Here she is!" He spread the ledger out over my own, pointing to the name written in neat script. "She traveled on the Gloria Mundi to Hamburg in 1863 when she was only three months of age. Look at the name above her." He ran his finger up one place.

"Verena Lee! Sixteen years old. She changed her name!"

"That was why we couldn't find her," Roger finished victoriously.

I read the top of the ledger, in neat script read the words: Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A.

"The Americas?"

"It would follow."

I rushed to the bookshelf that held a plethora of ship's passenger manifests, speaking while I searched, pulling out books and piling them beside me. "She said she was seven when she was cast out into the wilderness. If it were an exile then that would mean she had immigrated from Germany somewhere between the years 1847 and 1854. Here." I dumped half the stack of log books in front of Roger. Putting mine aside I pulled a book from the top of the stack, opened it on top of the other and ran my finger down the list of names. "I don't think the name 'Ernst' is a coincidence. That is likely her original surname." I opened another book and repeated the procedure, names blurring by so quickly as my eyes were only trained to recognize one. "Here it is!" I pointed to the entry:

Clara Ernst (27)

Rudolph Ernst (9)

Hansel Ernst (7)

Verena Ernst (1)

"They left from Hamburg in 1848," I said.

"Then they would appear in the 1847 census," Roger finished the thought. We abandoned the ships' passenger manifests and moved to the census books. It was almost an hour before Roger finally found what we had been searching for.

"Marcus Ernst, 26, of Jengen in Bavaria, husband of Clara Ernst, 26. Children are listed as Rudolph, Hansel, and Verena."

"I didn't see any manifests with his name listed."

"Nor did I, perhaps he intended to join them at a later date." Roger opened another book and, after a few moments, frowned.

"What is it?"

"1850, Marcus Ernst, 30, husband of Emilia Ernst, 20. Children are listed as Adelaide, two years old and Matthias, infant."

I felt a sinking in my stomach. "Are they still there today? Perhaps we might be able to gain some further information?"

Roger picked up an 1886 census, but, upon quick inspection of the contents he frowned and picked up an earlier book. I did not need to ask why. Deciding we might meet in the middle, I took up the 1851 census.

"There's no record of Marcus Ernst following 1863," I said, laying down my book next to the open one of the previous year.

"Perhaps they moved."

"They would have had to move out of the country, there is no trace of them anywhere."

"It is possible they wished to remain part of the Austrian empire."

I fixed him with an incredulous look, "Do you really believe that?"

"Not for a moment. That their disappearance from the census should coincide with Miss Ernst's arrival offends reason. I believe a trip to the telegraph office is in order. I have an old friend I need to contact as well in the Americas." Roger flipped his bowler in his hands and placed it neatly upon his head.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"A Pinkerton Detective they call 'The Poet'. He is particularly skilled in tracking those who do not wish to be found. Though we may have to wait some time for an answer as he is rarely in the office."

"He sounds like quite the fellow."

"He's not one to be taken lightly."

"How did you come to be acquainted with a Pinkerton?"

"That story will have to wait until I return."

"I'm not going with you?"

He regarded me with a fond smirk, "And risk that we might be seen together? Use your head for God's sake."

"What should I do in the mean time, then?"

"Sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow and I would like to get in some target practice in the morning."

"Tomorrow? Where are we going?"

"To Alsace to speak with Monsieur Schnaebele. He believes he may have some information that would be of interest to us regarding a particular French man of your acquaintance but he did not want to risk the message being intercepted. Why else did you think I sent for you so soon?"

"Perhaps you missed my company."

"Would it satisfy your pride if I declared I found it almost impossible to sleep without you nearby? If I enumerated my agonies at your absence? Though if you wished that I should do that then I will not be able to make the telegraph office before it closes."

I glared at him, "You should not tease me so."

"I assure you, I am in earnest. Just tell me what you would like me to say and I will do so at once."

"Then I should like you to say 'Goodbye, Miss Moore'."

"Very well, as you wish. Goodbye, Miss Moore," he said and he strode out the doorway.

I had intended to remain awake until Roger returned but found I was unequal to the task, falling sound asleep while reading through a census book on the sofa before the first stars rose in the sky. Sometime, late, I was roused by a stirring somewhere behind me. The room was dark but for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. I quietly shifted to see what the cause might be.

"Go back to sleep, Miss Moore, it is only I."

I yawned, my mind still blearily trying to decide whether this were a dream or reality. "You're home late."

"There was much to discuss; but that can wait until tomorrow." He placed another log on the fire, stoking the ashes with the poker. "Get some rest, Miss Moore."

I wanted to make some clever objection, but all my mind could manage was to help my head find its place, once more, on the sofa arm.

I awoke to the pale grey of dawn, a heavy blanket covered me. As I pulled it up to my chin I realized my feet were suddenly exposed to the early morning chill. What strange blanket was this? Regaining awareness I realized it was not a blanket at all, but a coat. It possessed the strong smell of the outdoors and gunpowder with a hint of bourbon and coffee. All that was Roger. Like the child morning made of me, I pulled the coat closer so that it formed a pillow under my cheek before realizing what I was doing and throwing the thing off. I heard the sound of clattering behind me.

"Oh good, you are awake. That saves me the trouble. Would you like a cup of tea before we begin the lesson?"

"Yes, please!"

A few minutes later we were settled with our tea.

"Were you able to contact your poet friend?" I asked, dipping a biscuit into the tea.

"The Poet, and no. Apparently Frank is rather preoccupied with the Crow at the moment."

"I thought American poets were more interested in Ravens."

"The Crow are an Indian Tribe, not a bird. Anyhow, they said they would pass the message along to him. But that could take some days."

"Days we may not have. Was the constable in Jengen able to provide any further information regarding Mr. Ernst?"

"Quite a lot. It seems Mr. Ernst and his first wife were heavily involved in the Revolution which found him often on the wrong side of the law. There was a large scandal involving him. Apparently, he sent his wife and children off to the Americas and then immediately took up with another woman of ill repute who already had a daughter that looked much like him. But as they had little trouble from either of them following that there was really not much to be said until the entire family was killed in a house fire on September 14th of 1863."

I rushed from my chair to the table where the manifests still lay, leafing through until I found the Gloria Mundi once more, "That's only three days after Verena Lee arrived!"

Roger regarded me seriously, putting into words my own thoughts, "I doubt it was a coincidence. Anyhow, if you are finished with your tea we may as well begin the lesson."

The silver pistol almost bucked out of my leather glove clad hand from the force of the shot. Roger shook his head in exasperation.

"You hold the pistol as if it were a surgical knife. That is why it jumps on you. When shooting you need to think of the pistol as an extension of you arm, not your fingers. Like this." He held his own large Russian piece out and fired three rounds. "You'll notice how the center of gravity is in my upper arm, not in my palm."

I attempted to copy his stance.

"Feet further apart. Allow your knees to bend some. You'll need that to absorb the shock so that you don't loose your balance. Keep the barrel parallel with your eyes." He walked over and, placing a hand under my chin, straightened it, "Parallel with-" he raised my arm, the pistol still in hand so that the sight lined up properly with the target, "-your eyes. There. Now aim for the circle in the center. You can use your other hand as support if you like, it will keep your aim straighter. Chin up. Higher." Exasperated he placed the back of his hand under my chin and raised it, not removing the support. "Now bring the sight up level with your eyes. Good. Now aim. Fire!"

I felt the weapon buck again, though far less severely.

"Well, you hit the boards this time. That is an improvement. Your grip is good, it is only your stance that is really the trouble. Again."

I practiced for almost half an hour, being constantly poked and prodded by Roger as he attempted to correct this or that problem. It seemed there were no end to them! As soon as I had thought I had one issue fixed there was another he had not even mentioned before. And, while I was certainly better than my first few shots, now that we were in the thick of it I could no longer tell whether I was getting better or worse.

"Again."

I took aim at the circle which represented the heart and fired. A small hole appeared just slightly below and to the right of the circle.

"That was good."

"If I want to do no damage at all!" I said, eyes stinging with tears of frustration.

"What do you mean?"

"The only thing in that spot is the diaphragm. Certainly it would hurt, but a person can easily survive a hole in their diaphragm."

"Then I suppose you shall just have to practice more."

And practice I did until Roger declared that while my aim might still require work, it was, at least, good enough to be dangerous. Following a quick breakfast of toast we made our way to the station for the first train to Alsace.

The journey to Alsace was quite long. Despite catching an early train it was already after noon when we arrived. Officer Schnaebele welcomed us to join him for a light lunch before sending us on to the tiny town of Beauchene with a packet of information marked du Beauchene, H. he told us he did not feel comfortable discussing in public. We sifted through the few documents within as our train moved along over the countryside.

It seemed Monsieur Du Beauchene was known to Schnaebele, the latter having formerly caught him smuggling nitroglycerin out of the country to Austria through the Alsace border during the war. When Du Beauchene's apartment had been searched they found quite an array of explosives. Unfortunately, Du Beauchene had anticipated such a possibility but Schnaebele had managed to guess the room might be set to explode and had miraculously avoided tripping the bomb. While Schnaebele was otherwise disposed, Du Beauchene had managed a rather daring escape from custody across the border into Austria. Since then Schnaebele had kept on the alert for him.

Schnaebele had attempted to contact the family at the time but they had refused to respond to his entreaties for any information as to where their son might have taken refuge. They claimed ignorance, though this offended reason for they still had numerous familial ties to Austria dating back to the Revolution. Their unwillingness to cooperate, though an affront to France, did not surprise Schnaebele. At the moment their son was only accused of a crime, were he caught and tried the disgrace would be far greater than they could afford. According to the documents they were an old family of Noble name which had not been of enough consequence to cause their permanent expulsion during the Revolution. They had returned to their ancestral home after the Terror had ended with an interest in reclaiming whatever benefits their rank might entail them to, which had turned out to be very little aside from their land, though still greater than they had been afforded in Austria. They owned a sizable vineyard of little note and even less success. The family consisted of three sons, Phillipe, who was the eldest, Marius, and Henri, himself. Still, despite meager success, they managed to scrape by enough to keep a small staff on their estate as well as provide a respectable inheritance for their first son and purchase a military rank for their second.

Disembarking from the train, we were met by a young policeman in a coach at the station who appeared rather annoyed at having to escort us so late into the countryside.

As we approached the crumbling Estate I could sense something was amiss. The house was too still, there were none moving about the grounds. The coach rattled up the drive but no one came to greet us. Roger helped me out of the coach. The cobblestones had become overgrown. The officer walked up to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He tried a second time, to no avail. Roger stepped forward and tried the handle, which easily gave way.

The large house smelt of mildew with the slight stench of decay that often testified to rats. There was no light but that which filtered in through the grimy windows. The glass of the lamps was almost entirely obscured by black soot. Flies meandered through the halls, untroubled by our unexpected appearance. I met Roger's gaze. We spoke not a word but continued on. The smell grew stronger as we neared the dining room. The officer had fallen back, leaving me in the lead of our party. The large red doors to the dining room, wreathed in gilded foliage, stood closed. The smell was now almost overpowering. I took a handkerchief from my bag and held it to my nose.

"This is where it comes from. Prepare yourselves."

I opened the door.

The stench assaulted our senses with such force as to throw the officer back. He retched loudly before covering his nose as I had. Not that it had much effect. It was so foul the smell was almost palpable. Roger followed me in as did the officer.

"Dear God in heaven!" the officer gasped.

I would not begrudge him the blasphemous statement. The table was set with what had once been a sumptuous feast. Flies crawled in and out of the boar's snout and danced upon its eyelids. A roasted hen with skin as stiff as ancient oil paper was missing a portion but was otherwise undisturbed. Bowls of wrinkled fruits and dried sauces still sat, wholly untouched. Loaves of bread, cloaked in soft greens and whites lay on large wooden boards with knives beside, at the ready. At the table, sitting as though poised to eat, still with glasses half full of wine, were five decaying corpses. Three male and two female by their dress. Flies landed here and there upon them. There was a sixth place set as well, but unlike the others it showed signs of use. The leg and thigh bones of the hen lay, dried, next to an apple core. The remnants of a dried sauce and congealed butter mingled on the edge of the plate. The glass beside this place was empty.

Roger went into the kitchen but quickly returned. "The cook, the maid, and the butler are in there."

I took one of the wine glasses from the table and sniffed it. The odor was strong, stronger than sensible for a pork and hen pairing. Swirling the deep red liquid slightly I saw a familiar powder had settled at the base. "Potassium Cyanide." I turned to the officer and gestured toward the head of the table where what had once been a tall, slender man with black hair and beard both flecked with white, "Is this Monsieur Du Beauchene?"

"I-I think so. I recognize the cane and the b- the beard." At this word the officer was lost to us, having run out into the hall to vomit.

"I am impressed he held out so long," I said.

"It is probably his first case of this type."

"Hopefully it will also be his last."

"What are your thoughts?"

Now somewhat acclimated to the smell I was able to approach the bodies. "It's difficult to tell at this advanced stage, but I would guess this is Madame Du Beauchene." I indicated the woman who sat on the opposite end of the table from Monsieur Du Beauchene. To her left the empty seat. "And the other woman might be the wife of one of the other men, probably this first one, judging by his position. The third man, I cannot say much for but that he must have been closer to Madame Du Beauchene than he who occupied the empty chair."

"I would wager he is the second son. That's a MĂ©daille d'honneur on the floor beside him. You can see the tear where it was ripped from his coat," Roger observed.

"Then the one to to the right of Monsieur Du Beauchene is likely the first. I doubt there is any more we can glean from these poor souls, we should search the house."

"I will take the downstairs, you check the living quarters."

I went up the stairs, catching sight of the police officer kicking around the cobblestones outside, evidently in no hurry to rejoin us. It seemed nothing had been disturbed in months. I entered a small room, not much larger than a servant's quarters. Inside was a bed, stripped of its coverings, and an old dresser. I was about to abandon it as storage space but then noticed dark squares on the wall from where pictures had recently been removed and an uneven coating of dust which showed where objects had once sat. I recognized a familiar imprint on the dresser: evenly spaced round beads ended by a tail of three finished with a cross. The place where a rosary had once lain. Beside it an empty square. I took the little red book from my bag and held it over the empty space; it was a perfect match.

I ran down the stairs to find Roger sifting through the ashes of the fireplace in the study. The room appeared to have been ransacked.

"Did you do this?"

"No, I would never be so careless. There is a safe that was hidden behind the portrait," he waved a hand toward a picture of a slender man with black hair and beard, leaning on a cane topped by a large jewel. The man bore the vaguest resemblance to one I had only just left yesterday, though more regal of feature. "but it has been emptied. Look," he prodded the pile of ash, "he's burned everything. I cannot find a single record that Henri Du Beauchene ever existed. If not for Schnaebele we would have nothing to tell us he ever was. And we very nearly did not even have that."

I knelt down beside him. Among the ashes the skeletons of beads, partially exploded from the heat of the fire, bore witness. "He erased himself. Or, at least, he tried to. But why would he do such a thing?"

"Why indeed?"

By the time we returned to Beauchene it was far too late to catch the last train. We procured lodging at what called itself an inn but was more accurately a house with three spare rooms. Though it had been my intention to sleep thoughts of Du Beauchene plagued my drowsing mind. I could see him, as if in a dream, walking around the dinner table before supper had been called, pouring the contents of a small vial into their drinks. Sitting down to supper with his family, perhaps proposing a toast, then calmly eating his meal as those around him suddenly convulsed and fell silent. In my mind I saw a malevolent smile appear as he watched the last of them cease moving with his dark eyes. I saw him dabbing his lips with a cloth before standing, walking over to his brother, and tearing the medal from the dead man's chest with a single swipe so that it fell to the floor. Then he took the dining room doors in hand, his dark form larger than life, and, still staring at the scene, closed them. I shuddered, fully rousing myself, not wishing to sleep for fear of dreaming. I sought a book and found only Baudelaire but reading gave me no comfort, within the pages no quarter. For his soul rose as a perfume from the ink disturbing my mind and filling my senses. I was glad to see the thin light of dawn upon the horizon. In the room beside mine I could hear Roger moving about and wondered if he had been able to sleep.

My answer came as we pulled into Paris Station. I had not even realized I had fallen asleep until the porter slid open the door to our compartment.

"Paris!" the porter called.

I jolted awake. I felt a strange pressure on the side of my head. Turning slightly I saw Roger, still asleep, his head resting against my own. I reached over and gently shook his shoulder.

"Roger... Roger... we've arrived in Paris."

He stirred, regarding me with a sleepy smile, "Good morning, Miss Moore."

"I believe it is past noon."

"Good afternoon, then. Take your pick," he said, stretching his arms to their full span with a grimace His shoulder where my head had lain popped loudly..

"How much longer?"

He looked at his watch, "We have about an hour before the train to Cologne departs, and from there we will catch the train to Munster. We will arrive by eight if all goes as planned. Hopefully there will be enough light that we will be able to get some practice in. We should probably purchase lunch before we leave, I find it infinitely easier to eat on a stationary surface. Are you hungry?"

I had not even had time to consider my current state, "I suppose I could eat something."

Lunch accomplished we boarded the train where Roger decided the time would be best put to use by a review of all that I had learned since my time in Gerizim. I related to him all the strange workings of the town. I had mentioned to him before the Sanguinem Agni Ceremony but was now able to do so in greater detail. I spoke of the sudden influx of people and our conversation with Rachael revealing that Veena had called in her missionaries.

A thick furrow grew between Roger's brows. "You said Rachael told you she had done this before?"

"Yes, in January."

"Then we do not have much time."

"If she wishes to continue to use her timeline, I doubt we have more than three weeks before the next big attack."

"Why do you say that?"

"The Kingdom of Munster fell on June 24. She'll wish to mark the date."

We sat in silence as we both pondered the implications of that statement.

Finally he spoke, "I did mean to ask, how did you manage to infiltrate Gerizim so quickly?"

He frowned as I related the story of Dinah's midnight assignation.

"So that is why you told me not to trust her. How long do you think they had been meeting in secret?"

"I could not say for certain, and she has never confessed it on asking, but at least a few weeks would be my guess."

"Do you believe she might betray us?"

"Not intentionally. I know Menning holds a great deal of sway over her, but as of yet he has not won over her faith."

"If he proposes to her do you think she would accept?"

"I do not know, but it is my hope she would not."

"Then I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate he has not yet asked; that is far too important a tie to maintain."

"I would rather it be broken."

"Why do you say that? You have attested he is highly regarded in the Kingdom of Munster; it is far better to maintain a good connection. Otherwise you will be vulnerable."

"I fear we are made more vulnerable through keeping it. Veena is... unnaturally attached to Menning. She regards Dinah with a particular antipathy that I fear would be dangerous were he to make his intentions known."

"She is jealous?"

I nodded.

"How does Quentin feel about this?"

"I'm not sure Quentin is particularly aware of it. I mean, certainly he must have some inkling, but he has lately been so preoccupied he would probably forget to eat were dinner not mandated."

"Another invention?"

"Yes, an Archimedes screw mill. He and Gregory spend all of their spare time working on it."

"Gregory Mueller?"

"The very same. They seem to be kindred spirits. You will rarely find one without the other."

Roger shook his head knowingly. "If I were to ask you to draw a map of Gerizim would you be able to?"

I was surprised by the sudden change in subject, thinking for a moment, "I suppose I could, though it would take some time."

"Good, and perhaps you could tell me more about this Du Beauchene character. I am growing weary of only seeing his handiwork with no knowledge of the man."

We arrived back at the cottage at almost precisely eight o' clock and immediately set to practicing for another half an hour before Roger sent me inside to brew some tea while he took down the target. Even in such a short time I had improved markedly. While I still could not consistently hit the heart, I now rarely missed the man. I began my map of Gerizim. It took quite some time to finish, it seemed whenever I thought I had recalled everything another piece appeared in my mind. The small, empty stable beside the Bauer's house, the watchtowers at the entrance to the horse path, the stone mill - those small features that could prove imperative. Putting the final touches on the paper I stretched.

"Finished?" Roger asked as I handed him the map.

"Finally."

He put the paper down on the table beside him. "Would you like another cup of tea?"

"Thank you, yes."

We sat for a time sipping tea before the warm fire.

"Will you be staying here tonight?" he asked.

"It is very late. That might be easiest. Though if Menning were to arrive early I would not want to be caught out."

"I'm certain you could find some excuse."

"Perhaps."

I did hate the thought of venturing out so late, away from my cat and my bed. I pondered my ambition as I sipped the tea.

There was a loud pounding on the door.

"Who is it!" Roger shouted over the sound.

"Heinrich Menning!" a voice shouted from the other side of the door which was still being beaten without ceasing.

"Just a minute!"

Roger and I exchanged panicked looks.

"Into the fireplace!" he said urgently, reaching into the flames and pulling down the false panel so that it served as a bridge over the fire.

I quickly crawled inside the small compartment behind. It was cool and dark.

"Kepler! Answer the door!" Menning growled.

"I'm coming!"

I pulled the panel into place, just as I did so I glimpsed Roger fold up the map into quarters and shove it into his inside pocket. On the other side of the panel I could hear Roger stirring the fire so that it would appear undisturbed. I distinctly heard the sound of another log being added.

"What in God's name can it be so late!" Roger yelled as he threw open the door. I heard it slam against the wall from the force.

"Where is she!" Heinrich demanded.

"Where is who?" Roger's tone was irritable.

"Miss Kepler! Where are you hiding her!" From the sounds I could tell Menning had entered without invitation and was searching, rather loudly, for signs of my presence.

"I haven't seen Miss Kepler in well over a month. Why don't you ask her Granny?"

"I've just come from there," Menning growled. "She hasn't been by all day."

I could hear the bedroom doors slamming one by one.

"I see you've acquired new furnishings and horses."

"I recently came into some money."

"You stole that money from your guests."

"I won on a longshot in the races!"

"And who's tea is this? You have brandy poured; you can't expect me to believe you were drinking both at different chairs."

I couldn't believe I was foolish enough to forget my cup of tea.

"I had a lady friend over. Am I not allowed company now?"

"It's still warm."

"She just left a few minutes ago."

"Then why did I not pass her on my way?"

"She lives in the opposite direction, deeper into Coerde, she must have decided to cut through the forest."

"This late at night?"

"I am not required to answer for the traveling habits of my guests."

"No, you just fleece them of all their belongings."

"Perhaps she's with one of your lot. Why should I care what the little slut does?"

The searching stopped and a heavy footfalls told me Menning was now at the place where Roger stood. I heard the dull thud of a blow landing. I shifted the panel just enough that I could see through the crack. There stood Menning, panting heavily, Roger on the floor before him.

"How dare you!"

Roger slowly made his way to his hands and knees, a thin line of blood trailing from his lip. I knew he could have dodged the blow but had chosen not to. Still it pained me.

"How dare I?" he muttered from his place on the floor. "You barge into my house in the middle of the night, tear everything asunder, assault me, and then have the gall to ask how dare I?"

"I'd wager you've earned far worse than that."

Though still mostly on his hands and knees, Roger drew his silver pistol in the sloppy manner of a man unaccustomed to using a firearm and pointed it at Menning. "Get out of my house!" he growled.

Menning raised his hands, taking a step back, "I'll go. But if you so much as go near your niece again-"

"Now." Roger cocked the gun.

Menning backed out, staring daggers at Roger the entire way to the door. Roger followed. A minute later I heard the door slam and the heavy sound of the bolt.

"Well, now that that's over." I heard Roger say, somewhat cheerfully.

I watched him walk back into sight as though nothing more had transpired than escorting a vaguely unpleasant guest off after tea. He straightened his cuff links and gave the hem of his coat a tug so that it lay flat. I pushed open the panel and crawled out.

"Roger, your lip," I cried, pulling out my handkerchief.

He touched a finger to the wound and looked curiously at the red spot upon the tip. "I suppose your right. I guess he threw a better blow than I thought. Anyhow, nothing to fuss over, Miss Moore," he said, repelling my attempt to dab the wound. "So that's Dinah's suitor, eh? Charming fellow. We really should have him over for tea sometime when this is all over."

"Ah, so you intend on staying around for a while this time?" I said, archly.

"Miss Moore, I intend to stay by your side so long as you will allow me."

"As long as I will allow you? Why would I not? You are speaking in riddles again."

"I assure you I am not." He shifted uncomfortably. "Miss Moore, there is something I said to you a long time ago. When I said it I believed it was true, but now I no longer wish it to be so. Do you recall those many years ago on the bank of the Darent River?"

"How could I ever forget?"

"You recall I kissed you and said I was certain I would not be the last man to do so."

"Yes."

"Well, at the time I believed it to be the truth, but now I do not want it to be so."

"You cannot possibly mean to be saying...?"

"I regret that I could not be the first, but I want to be the last man to kiss you. I only ask that you would allow me to be."

"Roger!" I cried in startled disbelief, no longer caring who heard.

"Miss Philomena Moore, I have waged war within myself these three years. I have battled truth with reason and failed to subdue it. Failing that, I ran from it and prayed that distance might, over time, cause my pain to subside. But my agony only grew. I appealed to better angels that I might, if not be able to conquer myself, then to at least silently accept my lot. But to see your face, to hear your voice, to have you once more beside me; I can deny truth no longer. My heart is held captive by you. I can no longer pretend my support for your union with any man unless that man be me for I can not bear to be separated from you again. For what man can live without his heart? And it cannot survive outside of you for it is yours, it belongs to you. Were I to die within you it would still remain. I only ask that you might take the rest of me as well, unworthy a man as I might be. Here I stand, I can do no other." His dark eyes met mine. There was a desperation in them. A plaintive pleading.

I sought for words. "I am engaged!" I cried.

"Is that your only reason for refusing?"

"How can you ask me such a question?"

Roger took hold of my hands, his eyes partially closed. I could now see within them what I had been told lingered there. It was far beyond mere affection. In my mind explosions burst one after the other, spots of shimmering blackness threatening to consume my reason. Stardust. I wished to speak but could not, for it were as though my stomach had lurched up into my throat, blocking any words that might be uttered.

"If you can tell me now that you do not care for me as I do for you then I shall withdraw my sentiments and never speak of them again,"

Every fiber of my being wished to answer him; reason, obligation were being choked by the descending oblivion in my mind. My very soul burned within me, a fire threatening to inflame my mind and senses.

"I... I must go!" I managed, tearing myself from him. I ran from the house to that of my supposed grandmother.

In the morning I found my horse tied outside: saddled and waiting for Menning's arrival. Menning appeared relieved that his fears had been unfounded, that I had merely rode too far and gotten lost the day before. I resolved to put what had happened the night before out of my mind, yet for the whole of the ride Roger would not leave my thoughts. Every word, every gesture, the feel of my hand in his, the tender gaze of his eye that sent my stomach swooping and set my heart to pounding. Of such things I could not think! But the memories refused to be banished. It were as though something had awoken within me, something that had not stirred in nine long years, a great and terrible thing I had believed dead and buried. Now it threatened to possess me once more. I greeted Quentin, Dinah, and the Bauers on my return home, begging that I might take my leave of them early for I was tired from traveling. As I lay down in my bed I ran a finger over my lips, not recalling the kiss only just bestowed upon them by my doting fiancé, but another, given upon a riverbank, so many years ago.