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with apprehension, as if it might burst into flames before my eyes. “But William,” I said, “if that were true, the world would—” I stopped. I couldn’t think of a word big enough.
    “Yes!” he said.
    Friday, September 18.
    William and I have quarrelled. It started when I told him Mimi casts my cards, that she’s teaching me how.
    “How can your life be in those little pieces of paper?” he demanded.
    “I just know the cards are right. I have seen that it is so.”
    “You can’t believe in freedom then,” he said.
    “Show me freedom!” I cried, and he had no answer. For there is no such thing.
    September 20, 8:30 P.M.
    William has apologized and I have accepted. He confessed that it distressed him to think that there might be no such thing as freedom, that everything was written. “Then what would it matter what a person did?” he asked.
    I told him about Catherine, and the fortune the old woman had givenher, and how it had so tragically come to pass. Then I told him about the fortune the old woman had given me.
    “Do you believe this is your destiny—to be Queen of France?” he asked.
    “How frightful that would be,” I said. A flock of crows were making a racket in some bushes down in a ravine.
    William picked a bough of scarlet bougainvillea and crowned my head. He stood back to look at me. “You would make a lovely queen,” he said.
    I turned away, for I felt so shamelessly beautiful in his eyes.
    He made a mock bow. “But who will be your king?”
    The bougainvillea fell from my head. I stooped to pick it up. I stood and faced him, suddenly dizzy. “You?”
    Then he kissed me, and I allowed him to do so.
    October 16.
    This afternoon William and I hiked up the mountain in hopes of seeing the green flash. * We waited until just after dusk, but even so, we did not see it, for too much kissing.
    Sunday, November 1, All Saints’ Day.
    Oh…holidays, holidays, holidays, I’m so anxious for them to be over.
    This morning, after lighting candles at Catherine’s tomb, Mother, Manette and I returned to a holiday “feast” at home: boiled green bananas and féroce. The féroce tasted terrible without salt, which we have had to do without ever since the British have blockaded the port. ** We said a prayer for Father, who is engaged in conflict in Sainte-Lucie.
    I’ve not seen William for five days.
    December 15.
    The British have captured Sainte-Lucie. Father is safe—he’s on his way home.
    New Year’s Day, 1779.
    Today I brought William a gift of ginger sweets. “You have found the way to my heart,” he said. Sometimes he talks like that—like an old-fashioned knight.
    It was hot so we stayed in the water a long time. When we got out we stretched out on the bank to dry. He untied my hair. Then he kissed me and held me close. There were no sounds, no birds singing, only the beating of my heart. I pulled away then, for it frightened me, this.
    “Where have you been?” Mother said when I got home. The shadows had grown long.
    “At the river with Mimi,” I lied.
    “Your cheeks are burned,” she said. “You’re neglecting to wear your bonnet.”
    It is night now, late. The hills are silent. I couldn’t sleep so I got up and lit a candle and opened this dear little book, that I might write down the thoughts that burn in my heart.
    I love William. I love William. I love William.

In which I am betrothed
    Friday, January 29, 1779.
    The letter from Paris came today. Aunt Désirée wrote Father: Whatever, just bring a girl, me or Manette, it didn’t matter. “We must have one of your daughters.” She urged Father to act with haste; the young chevalier might change his mind if forced to wait too long.
    There was a note to Father from the Marquis as well: “The one whom you judge most suitable for my son will be the one whom we desire.” He enclosed permission to have the banns read and left a space where a name should go.
    Father looked at me. “Well, Rose—your prayers have been