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     sound besides my frantic breaths. I closed my eyes, feeling the rise and fall of my
     chest slow as I allowed the peace of the chapel to settle into my bones. Scotsmen
     had come here for centuries—desperate, remorseful, and grieving—in search of solitude,
     and comfort from their maker. I felt their ghosts filling the benches around me, offering
     up their silent prayers. It made my fear and distress somehow easier to manage, knowing
     I was in their company.
    That and the pressure of Gage’s sleeve against my own. It appeared I had greatly misjudged
     him. So far he had been steadier than I, and the fact that he had not lorded it over
     me or belittled my effort earned my respect and tentative trust. It was tempting to
     lean into his solid presence, a reaction I couldn’t remember ever happening with a
     man outside of my family. I had never felt so comfortable with Sir Anthony, not even
     in the early days of our short courtship and marriage. It was puzzling and slightly
     unnerving.
    I sighed, catching a small whiff of his spicy cologne. It helped to clear the lingering
     stench of the cellar from my nose.
    “I should thank you,” Gage said softly. His tone sounded almost reluctant. I glanced
     up at him, but his gaze remained focused on the altar in front of us.
    “I never would have uncovered the fact that Lady Godwin was expecting.” His eyes finally
     met mine, but it was too dark to truly see into them. The lantern on the floor at
     his feet gilded his golden hair but shadowed the features of his face.
    I turned away, uncertain how to respond.
    “Could you tell how far along she was?” he asked, saving me from coming up with a
     reply.
    “No more than five months. The skin of her stomach was not overly stretched. I never
     noticed she was showing,” I said, recalling the way she had flitted about the parlor
     only the night before.
    Gage nodded, clearly having thought of the same thing. “Are you
certain
she was with child?” he queried. “Could the killer simply have been . . . disfiguring
     her?”
    I blinked slowly, remembering the coil of the severed umbilical cord. “She was enceinte,”
     I stated decisively.
    He nodded again, accepting my word without further argument. “So there is a missing
     baby somewhere.” He sighed. “Was there anything else you noticed? Anything that might
     help us?”
    In my mind, I cautiously returned to the scene downstairs and tried to think like
     Sir Anthony, like one of his students. But I didn’t think like a surgeon. I thought
     like an artist. I saw everything as it was—the contours, the colors, the rhythm—not
     how it should be. My mind did not try to correct an image but capture it.
    I wrapped my shawl tighter around me and ignored my frustration over what I didn’t
     have the education for, and instead focused on what I did. “Beyond the inflicted wounds,
     I noticed no particular signs of deterioration or illness. Her bowel would have been
     fine except . . .” I paused, realizing something. “The cut at her neck was made precisely
     and, I would venture to add, with some skill. But the incisions on her abdomen were
     jagged, awkward. I suppose that could be attributed to a certain amount of struggling
     from Lady Godwin, but I dare say she died, or at least passed out, before her murderer
     sliced into her abdomen.” I glanced at Gage, who had begun to run his index finger
     over his lips as he thought.
    “Maybe our murderer has no experience cutting body parts other than the neck.”
    “Or they were emotionally distraught,” I added.
    “Or . . .” He looked up at me. “We’re dealing with more than one person. Perhaps our
     murderer had an accomplice.”
    I nodded. I had been thinking of one man as well, but we could be dealing with multiple
     villains. And though I suspected the person who sliced Lady Godwin’s neck was a man,
     the accomplice could be a man or a woman. “Whoever it was, they likely got blood