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when you wouldn’t come down to supper.”
    “Then—he’s gone?” Her chair scraped sharply on the floor when she stood up.
    “Well, ’e were talkin’ to Mrs. Fruit when I come up to tell you, so I can’t say but what ’e might still be here. Shall I—do you want me to—”
    “I’ll go myself.” Anne brushed past Susan in the doorway and hurried down the narrow steps, wondering at her own urgency. As starved as she was for human contact, she was also profoundly unfit for it tonight. Besides, what could she and the Archangel have to say to each other? She slowed her steps as she neared the blue parlor, hoping he wasn’t there.
    He wasn’t.
    Her heart sank; the heaviness of her disappointment amazed her. Violet was pulling the heavy draperies across the windows on the other side of the room. “Where is Reverend Morrell, Violet?”
    “Why, ’e left, m’lady. Mrs. Fruit was just now walkin’ ’im to the door.”
    “The courtyard door?” The maid nodded. “When?”
    “‘Alf a minute ago.”
    Anne gathered up her skirts and rushed back down the hall the way she’d come.
    The housekeeper was nowhere in sight. Anne threw open the courtyard door and started down the two shallow steps. Under the gatehouse arch twenty yards away, Reverend Morrell heard the door hinges creak, and whirled around; in the pale light of a thin quarter moon, the white of his shirt gleamed as bright as a candle. For a long second, neither of them moved. Then, in unison, they started toward each other, and met in the center of the weedy flagstone courtyard.
    “Reverend Morrell,” she said, nearly as out of breath as Susan had been. “I’m glad I caught you. They just told me you’d come—forgive me for not greeting you.” They touched hands briefly, Anne wearing her blithest social smile.
    He wasn’t in clerical garb tonight—his sober suit looked brown or dark blue, it was hard to tell in the murky light. What would she have taken him for, she wondered, if she hadn’t known he was a minister? A barrister? No, he was too . . . vigorous, too physical for such a sedentary occupation. Not a scholar either, for the same reason, although his face was intelligent enough for it. An architect, perhaps. Yes. A master builder, the sort of man who constructed churches rather than preached in them.
    “It’s very late,” he was saying apologetically. “I really came to see your husband, just to ask him a question. When Mrs. Fruit said you weren’t feeling well, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
    She’d forgotten how consoling his low voice was. “No, she was mistaken. As you can see, I’m quite well. Won’t you come in? Now that you’re here—”
    “Thank you, I’d better not.” He peered at her as if he didn’t believe she was quite well, and she wondered how he could know. If she cried so much as one tear, her eyes always gave her away, but tonight she hadn’t been weeping. “I didn’t know Geoffrey was away,” he explained. “I only wanted to ask him a question about his father’s gravestone.”
    “Ah.” She folded her arms and took a step back. Now that she knew he wasn’t staying, she couldn’t decide whether she was glad or sorry. “I suppose he’s left all of that to you, the details about the stone and the epitaph and so on.” She made her voice sympathetic, inviting him to complain of the imposition, or to say something about how typical it was of Geoffrey.
    But he declined the invitation. “Yes,” he said mildly, “and now the stonecutter wants to know what to carve on the headstone.”
    Something made her say, “And do you really imagine, Reverend Morrell, that Geoffrey would care?”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe not,” he admitted after a moment. “But I had to ask.”
    “Yes, I suppose. Perhaps I can advise you, then. If you left it to Geoffrey, I’m afraid he might suggest something profane.”
    She thought he smiled slightly at that. Just then the house cat, an overweight tabby