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against its springy coolness. The hollow behind her ear was warmer, much softer. Her body shook slightly with every heartbeat. Otherwise she didn't move, not even when he slipped his fingers inside the high collar of her dress, soothing the overheated skin there lightly. "Look at me." She turned her head, and with the movement her throat brushed the back of his hand.
    The look in her opal-colored eyes stopped his slow caress. Cooled his ardor. Nothing he could do, the look said,. a& matter how callous or capricious, could touch her.
    Good; then they understood each other. Her attitude was hardly flattering, though. He admired her stoicism, but not when it was directed at him.
    He let his hand fall away and stepped back. "Sleep well, Mrs. Wade. We'll speak again in the morning."
    "Good night, my lord." As expert as she was at hiding her feelings, she couldn't disguise her relief. He would enjoy making her pay for it.
    *   *   *   *   *
    A faraway bell was tolling midnight. The church bell in the village, she supposed. The lingering, deep-throated peals were soothing and sad, the very sound of loneliness. Time passed slowly, was the message in the bell's leisurely pace. But time in the world and time in a convict prison were not even in the same dimension. And the church bell's lonely knell was infinitely preferable to the cruel shriek of a prison bell, whose dreadful note was the tonal embodiment of everything brutal and despairing.
    Throwing off the covers, Rachel rose and sat on the edge of her bed. Her bare feet looked strange on a carpet. She burrowed her toes in, testing the softness. The mattress was too soft, as if a mistake had been made. The air was indescribably sweet; she'd left the window open, even though the night was chilly, so she could smell the air. Last night, she'd sat on the brick floor in the Tavistock lockup, a nine-foot-square cell, airless and lightless. A pailful of filth in the corner, left by the previous occupant, had kept her company all night.
    She fumbled with matches on her bedside table and lit the candle in the brass holder. The little thrill in her chest at this elementary but powerful act—controlling light and darkness in her own room—would probably fade soon, like her awareness that the bed was too soft. How quickly one could adjust to the unspeakable luxuries of freedom.
    She put her hand on her stomach, which felt queasy. She hadn't eaten much for dinner, scarcely touched any wine, but the food had been so rich, it had made her nauseated. And afterward she'd drunk coffee. Real coffee, the taste so powerful and exotic she'd only been able to take a few sips.
    Barefooted, she got up and carried the candle into the sitting room. Just to look at it again. There was a desk with a chair, and a shelf next to it with a place for books. An oil lamp on the table, and a wooden bowl for flowers, or maybe fruit. Her own window to open or close, just as she pleased, any time she liked. And a fireplace, with a soft chair, an upholstered chair, to sit in before it—those were the best things. No, the desk and the window were the best. Or was it the bowl for flowers? Something else she couldn't decide.
    Deciding things was going to be a problem, she already knew that. The day they'd let her out of Dartmoor, she'd wished the wardress had come along to shout at her, "Walk to the station in Princetown, Forty-four! Watch out for your belongings! Buy your ticket! Get on the train, Forty-four, and no looking about you!" The simplest choices could still freeze her in place, petrify her with fear of the potentially drastic ramifications of every innocent act. In Ottery St. Mary, before the constable took her up, she had stayed for two nights at Mrs. Peavey's guest house. But she'd lurked outside in the wet street for hours first, uncertain of what to say to the landlady when she met her, how to get a room, how much to pay. And most of all, terrified that Mrs. Peavey would recognize her. She hadn't, of