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own life,” she said quietly.
    “You know him well, then. And you would prefer to be in the middle of his life?”
    “Sir, you are not kind!”
    “And you, miss, are a liar. You have not said one word without its meaning something else.”
    “Sir, take pity,” she pleaded. “I am only a woman.”
    “Only?” he sputtered, before he could stop himself. “I have been talking to women all day long. I deserve more pity than you do. For God’s sake, tell me what happened!”
    She sprang from the stool. “I cannot. Do you understand me? I cannot explain! I cannot explain what happened to her!”
    “So you know the infant was a girl.”
    She covered her face with her gloved hands.
    “So she was yours, then,” he pressed.
    Face still covered, she nodded.
    “Good—now we are getting somewhere.” He eyed her over the candle. How long had it been since the birth? Twelve or thirteen days at most. She was pale and more drawn now than at the interview’s start. She looked as if she wanted to go home, pull off her boots, and climb into bed without another word. Or was that what Bartwain wanted? His toes had begun aching.
    “Miss Lockyer,” he said, more gently, “these things are not very complicated. To indict you, all I need is proof you tried to hide the newborn’s death and some credible witness indicating the child was yours. Your acknowledgment just now together with the Widow du Gard’s testimony about your behavior in the woods and the haberdasher’s report that she examined your physical person for evidence of childbirth are sufficient to meet these criteria. If you do not intend to provide some correction or counter to what I have learned thus far, this meeting does not need to continue.”
    She lowered her hands and met his look. “Have mercy on me,” she whispered.
    “I cannot have mercy unless you tell me what happened.”
    Silence.
    “Have you lost your memory?”
    “I don’t think so, sir.” She stood very still.
    “What is it, then? Don’t you know what happened?”
    “I cannot say. Can’t you understand? I cannot say what happened! I have not yet resolved what took place.”
    “Haven’t
resolved
? What, do the events require interpretation?”
    Swiftly she turned away from him.
    Bartwain, frustrated, changed tactics. “Do you believe in free will, Rachel Lockyer?”
    All the Levelers professed it. John Lilburne, William Walwyn, the others—all swore on their mothers’ graves that human actions remained voluntary, freely chosen. But when something happened for which they did not want to take responsibility or for which they feared reprisal, they attributed the event to providence. Bartwain detested such double-mindedness.
    “Yes.” Rachel was studying his bookshelves. “Yes, Investigator, I believe in free will.”
    The air in the chamber refused to stir. Even his two candles would not flicker. Bartwain cleared his chest, fumbling in the gloom for his pipe. “Do you also believe in self-preservation?”
    “Yes.” She moved to face him, stepping closer, her skirt brushing the side of his desk. She was slighter than he had anticipated, and without adornment, like a tree that has cast off its leaves for want of rain. “Yes. What is there to believe? It is a law of nature.”
    Bartwain did not want to find this woman arresting. She had said little that was useful. He did not find her beautiful. Her pale coloring did not go well with her eyes or dark hair, and her mouth was so wide it drowned out her other features. But she captured the attention.
    “If you believe in self-preservation, then perhaps you also think it is acceptable to take a life in self-defense?” He knew he was wandering away from the material evidence.
    Her emerald eyes passed through him. “No,” she returned. “Self-defense is no sin, but taking a life is wrong in the eyes of God.”
    “You cannot have it both ways.” He stood, swaying, planting his hands on his desk. “Do you think you can have it both