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most part staunchly Royalist; and the king’s imprisonment in Caris-brooke Castle was being conducted with the utmost grace and civility.
    So where was Olivia? If she’d been hurt, someone would have found her. She’d have found some way to send a message home.
    Phoebe moved the child to her other breast and leaned her head against the window frame, looking down into the garden. The scent of wallflowers rose thick and sweet from the bed planted beneath the window; a small fountain played musically in the center of the pond set in the middle of the lawns. It was a soothing and peaceful scene that didn’t lend itself to thoughts of violent abductions, hideous injuries.
    She concentrated all her thoughts on Olivia, with whom she’d lived for close on six years. She knew Olivia almost as well as she knew herself. They were bound by ties that transcended mere friendship. Phoebe closed her eyes and pictured Olivia, with her penetrating black eyes, the little frown of concentration that had almost permanent residence between her thick black eyebrows, the full bow of her mouth. She allowed Olivia’s presence to fill her mind so that she could almost feel her beside her.
    The baby had fallen asleep, allowing the nipple to slide from his rosebud mouth. Phoebe cradled his head in the palm of her hand as she slipped her free hand into the pocket of her gown. Her fingers closed over the little ring of braided hair that she carried always. Portia had takenlocks of their hair and made three rings at the very beginning of their friendship when they’d all sworn they would never succumb to marriage and the ordinary lot of women. Two of them had succumbed to marriage, but definitely not to the ordinarily submissive role of married women. Only Olivia remained with her oath completely inviolate. And knowing Olivia, she would probably remain so, Phoebe thought.
    Portia had braided the rings as a joke, making them mingle their blood in a vow of eternal friendship. Phoebe knew that Olivia, like herself, always carried her ring. Portia probably didn’t; it was a little too sentimental and whimsical for the soldierly Portia. But as she held the ring, Phoebe knew that if any harm had come to Olivia, she would know it in her bones. And the knowledge just wasn’t there.
    So just what was Olivia up to?
    O LIVIA LEFT THE CABIN, barefoot, in her borrowed raiment. She had to clutch the wall of the narrow corridor once or twice when the vessel broke into a particularly exuberant dance across the waves and her still rather wobbly legs threatened to give way.
    A ladderlike staircase was at the far end of the corridor. Sunshine puddled onto the floor at the foot of the steps, pouring from an open hatchway where Olivia could see a wedge of blue sky and the corner of a white sail.
    She scrambled up the steps and emerged blinking onto the sun-soaked deck under the vivid blue brightness of the morning. The decking was smooth and warm beneath her bare soles, and the wind caught her makeshift gown, pressing it to her body one minute, sending it billowing like a tent the next.
    Olivia looked around at the orderly bustle of menlaughing and singing as they handled blocks and tackle, shinnied into the rigging, spliced rope. No one seemed to notice her as she stood at the head of the companionway, wondering where to go.
    Then she heard a familiar voice calling out an order, and she looked behind her to see the master of the ship on the high quarterdeck, standing behind the helmsman at the wheel.
    The golden head was thrown back as he looked up at the sails, feet apart, legs braced on the moving deck, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed against the sun. His tones were calm and unhurried, but his posture, his expression, were both taut and alert.
    Olivia hesitated for a moment, then made her way to the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. She climbed slowly, needing to catch her breath at every step, but despite slightly shaky legs she felt as free and light