“Far from it,” I said, taking the note back from him. The afternoon had turned chill as a bracing rain began, and we gathered in a timbered sitting room in front of a hulking stone chimneypiece to take champagne tea, a concept introduced by Cécile and embraced at once by my husband. He had opened for us a bottle of Moët, and Cécile was inspecting the bubbles in her glass.

“You know, Monsieur Hargreaves, that I much admire our clever thief,” Cécile said. “But his every quality pales in comparison to you.”

“I do appreciate the vote of confidence, Cécile,” my husband said, inspecting an array of hors d’oeuvres on the table before him. Oignons blancs farcis, stuffed with herbed roast pork and Gruyère cheese, poached truffles, and a spectacular pâté de campagne. “I’m not surprised in the least, now that we know your old friend is behind this, Emily, that he should have found you. No doubt when he learned you were in France he set about manufacturing a circumstance to bring himself back to your attention. He could have easily determined that my mother is friends with George Markham—it’s reasonable to assume two expats living in such close proximity would keep company.”

“So he stole a painting to get my attention?”

“I think he stole it to ward off ennui,” Cécile said. “His life has undoubtedly become tedious since he’s stopped following Emily.”

“An excellent point,” Colin said. “But now that he—”

“Who is following Lady Emily?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, entering the room and sitting next to her son.

“An old nemesis, mother,” Colin said. “And the man who put the painting in the Markhams’ house.”

“Sebastian is far from a nemesis,” I said. “If you remember, he turned out to be quite good.”

My mother-in-law coughed. “Sebastian? You are on a first-name basis with a thief?”

“He’s not simply a thief. In the end, he agreed to protect—” I began.

She raised a hand to silence me. “I’m afraid we haven’t time for it now, Lady Emily. I’ve come with business. Are you well enough to speak to Inspector Gaudet? I worried that perhaps this gallivanting about the countryside might have set your recovery back, so I’ve left him waiting in the corridor while I inquire.”

“I’m much better, thank you,” I said. “But I do very much appreciate your touching concern for my health.” Now it was Cécile’s turn to cough, and I caught a wicked glint in Colin’s eyes at my ironic tone. His mother disappeared only for a moment, returning with the inspector.

Gaudet nodded sharply at us as he entered the room. “I understand you believe you’ve identified our thief?”

“He’s someone familiar to me, yes,” I said.

“Has this man a history of violence?”

“No,” I said. “None at all. He’s more likely to protect someone than harm him.”

“My dear,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “I do hope you’re not operating under the misapprehension that your limited experience has rendered you capable of judging the criminal mind.”

“Emily is more than capable,” Colin said. “She knows this man—Sebastian Capet, he calls himself—as well as anyone.”

“Do you consider him dangerous, Monsieur Hargreaves?” the inspector asked.

“I would hesitate to consider him in any way until I learn where he was at the time of the murder.”

“We are searching for him now,” Gaudet said. “Although it seems a hopeless business. He’s left no clue as to his whereabouts.”

“Have you identified the murdered girl?” I asked.

“Oui,” he said. “Edith Prier. An inmate who’d escaped from an asylum outside Rouen nearly six months ago. Her family lives in the city and her father identified the body.”

Nausea swept through me at the thought. To have found the body of a stranger in such a condition was bad enough. Seeing a loved one so brutally slain would be beyond anything I could tolerate. Plagued with thoughts of the baby I’d lost, my senses all began to swim.

“Have you any leads in the case?” Colin asked.

“None. We’ve found no evidence, no suspects, no witnesses. But that’s why I’m here, Lady Emily. I need you to think carefully about finding the body. I want you to describe for me everything you can remember.”

“I’ve gone over it all more times than I can count, Inspector,” I said. “Truly, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary beyond the body itself. I’m more sorry than I can say.”

“Surely you weren’t wholly unaware of your surroundings?” my mother-in-law asked.

“I’m afraid I was, Mrs. Hargreaves,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. “I’ve rather a lot on my mind, and had not the slightest idea I was about to stumble upon a murder. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Without another word, I rushed from the room and tore out of the house. My chest bursting with anger and grief and regret, I ran towards the tall stone gate, unsure where I planned to go, pausing only when I heard Cécile call out to me.

“Chérie! Do not make me run. It will anger me and force me to sic Caesar and Brutus on you, a situation from which no one would benefit, particularly Caesar. The food here does not much agree with him and I fear a few bites of lace would do him in entirely.”

This made me laugh, despite myself. “I’m so sorry.”

“I had to stop your husband from following you as I wanted a word on my own. But you must know he’s terribly upset and giving his mother a good scolding. Madame Hargreaves is being deliberately difficult,” Cécile said. “This was not, I fear, a good place for you to seek respite after your loss.”

Tears smarted. “So far as she’s concerned my losing the baby is just further proof of my inadequacies.”

“That unfortunate event may not have endeared you to her, but she can hardly blame you for it.”

“Of course she can,” I said, sobs coming close together now. “If I’d not been so reckless—if I’d behaved like a lady, as my own mother so politely put it—it never would have happened.”

“You saved an innocent girl from a brutal death and rushed into the face of danger without the benefit of knowing the condition in which you were.”

“I suspected it,” I said. I’d spent much of my honeymoon worried that I might be with child. And, rational or not, I could not help but think my ambivalence towards the subject led me to a disastrous end. Cécile stared at me, standing close.

“You did not cause this. The dreadful man who shot you did. I shall let you torment yourself for precisely three minutes, but thereafter you will lay the blame on him and him alone.”

She gave me closer to twenty minutes before she marched me to a secluded spot in the garden and sat beside me on the grassy bank of a sparkling pond. “I’m so sorry…” I began.

“Stop at once,” Cécile said. “We’ll have no more of it. I’ll not have you driving yourself mad like poor Madeline.”

“It was distressing, wasn’t it, when she changed so radically as we spoke to her? But she was lucid nearly all the rest of the time. Do you really think she’s mad?”

“She’s on her way. There were small things as well as the screeching insanity of that conversation. That tea was undrinkable, and she thought we’d come round for dinner.”

“I noticed that as well,” I said. “Will she turn out like her mother?”

“I’m afraid so. You, Kallista, have a husband who loves you and friends who would do anything for you. You’ve suffered a terrible loss, and we’re all here for you while you grieve. But do not deliberately make it worse than it is. What married woman do you know who hasn’t lost a child? You’ve got the terrible occasion out of the way early.”

“I—”

“And don’t act horrified that I’d speak so openly about such things. We both know it’s true.”

She was right, but it brought me no comfort. I had to let myself feel the responsibility for my actions. Given the same circumstances, given what I knew at the time, I’d make the same decisions again. Regret was not precisely what I felt. Instead, I was struggling to accept and understand that in some ways I was less capable than my peers. I might be able to read Greek and converse on any number of cultural topics, but I had neither the inclination nor the ability to do what was expected of every woman. And it was this lack of inclination that troubled me the most.


“My mother sent this up for you,” Colin said, handing me a book. “If nothing else, it should amuse you.” After Cécile and I had come inside, I’d retired early, not staying downstairs long after dinner, preferring the comfort of our curtained, four-poster bed to having to further contend with my mother-in-law. Cécile promised to try to tame her on my behalf, but I had no desire to watch her attempt.

I sat up, took the volume from him, and tried to choke back my laughter. “Madame Bovary?”

“She knows it’s one of my favorites,” he said. “And Flaubert did, after all, live in Normandy.”

“Perhaps she hopes it will inspire me to behave as badly as its heroine so that you might be left alone.”

“I believe she meant it as a peace offering. And I can think of something better to inspire you.” He kissed me. First on the lips, then on the neck. “I can’t risk having you sitting around being unremittingly grim all the time.”

“You think Madame Bovary might make me grim?”

“More like make me grim.” He kissed me again, and I knew when his hand deftly unfastened the pearl button at the top of my nightgown it would be a long time before I slept. Even then, although he’d sent me off to sleep in the most pleasant fashion, I tossed fitfully, tormented by my dreams, hideous scenes of the cistern in Constantinople haunting me, each more terrifying than the reality through which I’d lived. I’d be trapped underwater, feeling my lungs fill, or I’d be clawing at the wooden door, unable to open it before rough hands gripped my neck. I struggled, tangling myself in the sheets, and then screamed when the sensations became too real—something had pricked my neck and drawn blood.