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and gold?”
    Mary opened her mouth to reply, but found too much truth in the remark to rebut it. Sometimes she hated Deborah for being able to say precisely what would hurt her most.
    “P-please don’t fight,” Anne said. “Mary may love whomever her heart leads her to love.”
    “Love! Oh, I shall be sick!” Deborah exclaimed.
    Mary, seething at Deborah’s earlier comment, chose a barb that would be equally hurtful in response. “Sir Adworth said that Father was strook blind by God for siding with Cromwell.”
    Liza gasped and even Deborah could not speak for a few moments. Finally Deborah said, “That’s not true. God would not punish a man who sacrifices himselffor what he believes. Sir Adworth has never made a sacrifice in his life.”
    “You are such a tedious puritan, Deborah.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Then why do you dress like one and act like one?”
    “I simply prefer plain clothes,” Deborah said. “Like Father. And I believe in Christian liberty — each man should be able to worship as his conscience dictates, for we cannot know for certain what God is or what God wants of us.”
    “That’s one of Father’s ideas, too, is it not?” Mary teased.
    “Father is a wise man.”
    Mary contemplated Deborah for a few moments. She was the only one of the three of them who resembled their father: his soft, fair complexion, his pale red-gold hair, his wide hazel eyes. Anne and she were dark like their mother, though Mary flattered herself that Anne was less robust, more pinched in the face, her hair lanker and straighter. Deborah, the youngest by four years, already towered over them both. She often wore her long hair loose, and despite her taste for sober colours, her stature and the golden sweep of her hair drew gazes wherever she went.
    “I know not why you worship Father so,” Mary said finally, and she meant it. It wasn’t just another dart thrown into the argument. “He’s unkind to all of us, you included.”
    “He is angry because he is blind. We must do our best for him.”
    Mary leaned back in her seat. The coach bumped as it hit a stone on the road. “I only hope that his new wife is kinder to us than he is.”
    “I’m sure she will be,” Deborah said. “What say you, Liza, for you have met her?”
    Liza shook her head. “’Tis not for me to judge, ma’am.”
    “Is she nice? Is she kind?” Mary asked.
    But Liza would not answer, and her silence spoke volumes.
    Evening had descended on London by the time their coach rattled up towards Father’s house. A butcher’s wagon blocked the Artillery Walk, so they pulled down their trunks and set off on foot up the hill. The Walk was a dark, narrow alley, the upper jetties of buildings blocking out the sky. A light drizzle dripped mournfully, making the ground muddy. Deborah kept her eyes on her feet so she wouldn’t slip.
    “It is the one on the left where you can see the light in the window,” Liza called behind her.
    Deborah blinked rain out of her eyes. Why had Father chosen the darkest, narrowest street on the block? Then she admonished herself, for she suspected she knew. Since the return of the King, Father’s fortunes had foundered. Perhaps the Walk was all he could afford. After the wide open fields and fresh air at Grandmamma’s place, dank, noisy, cramped London would be hard to get used to.
    Moving ahead of them, Liza pushed open a door. The girls hurried inside and stood dripping in the doorway.
    Liza indicated the door on her right. “He’ll be in there.”
    “Liza?” Father’s voice. “Is that you?”
    “Yes, Mr Milton, sir,” Liza said, ushering them through ahead of her. “Your girls are home.”
    Father sat, straight-backed, in his austere chair by the fire, his head cocked slightly to one side as though he considered a conundrum. He was surrounded by low bookshelves, a harpsichord, and a carved writingdesk which he could not use now he was blind. In one corner of the room, two battered trunks of books were