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Cecília rubbed her side, not certain if the dull ache there was promising rain or just the memories she hadn’t been able to escape all evening. Depending on how little time John actually had in dock, he could already have been back on his ship and sailing off across the Atlantic. That was the way it went, after all. John crashed into her life like a cannonball then disappeared again while she was left trying to rebuild what once was—what she once was.
But that’s what he can do. She moved to the window of her room. Be here when the world comes tumbling down then sail off while the rest of us are still...
She couldn’t think of a way to end the thought. As hard as Senhor Carvalho was working to get the Baixa rebuilt, it had been three years, and it didn’t seem as though they were any closer to having Lisbon back. Another three decades could pass before she ever lived there again.
She frowned, that idea never having crossed her mind before. Am I waiting to live there again? Do I want to live there again?
At the moment, she was ready to live just about anywhere but Lisbon. Others were sailing halfway across the world, and she had never been more than half a day’s travel from the spot where she was born.
Maybe that’s always been the problem.
She unlatched the window and pushed it open, easing it past the squeak. A cool, damp breeze swept in, and the chill made bumps rise along her arms. Judging from the clouds in the distance, her side, and the humid air, she had to assume a storm was moving in. All the same, she pulled herself up and out.
Her feet had barely landed on the spongy grass outside when John’s voice caught her.
“Your uncle said you’d likely sneak out tonight.”
She spun, her eyes taking a second to spot him in the shadows cast by the nearly full moon. “What are you doing out here?”
“He asked me to stay and speak with you. Said you slip out the window some nights and think he doesn’t know.”
She frowned.
“Your window squeaks, and the walls are thin,” John offered for explanation then motioned to the place on the grass next to him. “Would you like to sit?”
“You’ve just been sitting out here, waiting for me?”
“I had dinner first.” He leaned back enough for the moonlight to catch his face. “Your uncle’s been worried about you. I said I was more than happy to help if I could.”
“You can’t.”
“You’re certain?”
“We haven’t spoken in years.”
“You didn’t write,” he returned.
She hesitated but clung to the excuse that no longer remained true. “I told you I didn’t write well.”
“I was still hoping I’d hear from you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re an impossible woman to forget, apparently.”
Cecília swallowed, not certain what she should take from the tingle that moved through her.
“He told me about the Távora trials,” John continued. “And your friend. Terra?”
She crossed her arms, looking out across the gardens. “I think he was in love with me.”
He paused briefly. “Not the first man to be, I’m sure.”
“I used him,” she said, remembering the confessional that morning. “I used him. I lied. I got people killed.”
“You didn’t make anyone attempt regicide.”
“I don’t know that anyone...” She realized how close they still were to the palace. Even if she was talking to John, she was still at court. The past three years had still happened. She dropped her voice and finally knelt so he could still hear her at a whisper. “I don’t know that anyone did. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn’t. All I know is half of what was said is questionable at best and blatant lies at worst. I didn’t lie to condemn a guilty man. I lied and will never know if they were innocent.”
John studied her, his face blank enough that Cecília couldn’t interpret how he was judging her.
“I’m going to Hell,” she said softly.
“To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgivenesses,” he quoted. “I don’t know what your priests say, but I know mine always said there was no sin so great that God would not forgive a truly repentant soul.”
“A Deist priest?”
“C of E,” he said. “I wasn’t raised Deist.”
She supposed that made sense. She looked down.
“You went against your conscience. You may have done something terrible, but I am sure there are many men in this world who have managed to forgive themselves for far more grievous sins than yours. From all your uncle said, you far from signed their death warrants. And even if you deserved your own punishment, it sounds as though you have put yourself through worse than anyone else would ever do to you.”
“My uncle told you that?”
“As I said, he’s been worried about you. And you do look thin, if you’ll forgive my saying.”
“I’m not certain he’s in any position to offer moral guidance.” She shifted to properly sit and pulled her knees up to her chest like a child. “Nor are you, for that matter, if you’ll forgive my saying.”
The corner of John’s mouth tipped up, making him look anything but offended. “Then who is? Do you need the pope to personally forgive you? The angel Gabriel to come down?”
“You’re teasing me now.” She frowned.
“I’m really not. Just... what’s done is done. You have repented, have worked to atone... what else can you do?”
“I wish I knew.”
John brought his hand to her cheek. “I may be the last person you consider qualified to give you advice on the state of your soul, but from what I was told, I would be hard-pressed to believe you forever damned, at least not beyond the Hell you’re currently putting yourself through.”
How dearly Cecília wanted to believe that. She studied him. “How can you be so certain of everything you believe, John?”
“I’m not certain, but I’ve spent years reading and questioning my own beliefs. I just had the luxury of having the choice to do that. All of this was rather forced upon you, I admit. At least part of that is my fault.”
She shook her head, exhausted down to her bones, tired of thinking, tired of worrying, tired of remorse and shame and regret. “How long are you staying?”
“Just until morning. Your uncle took up a fair deal of Mr. Hays’s time this afternoon, which meant he couldn’t finish the letters he wanted us to take in time for us to leave this evening.”
“My uncle went far out of his way to have you talk to me tonight.” Cecília wondered just how much Tio Aloisio would have done to bring her out of her penance. She moved to the question still burning in her mind. “Will you be coming back? To Lisbon?”
John hesitated. “I’m not certain. It isn’t my ship.”
“So tomorrow morning, off you go until I have some other crisis and you suddenly find your way back?”
“I certainly hope not. I don’t enjoy the idea of being the harbinger of Lisbon’s misfortune. Or yours, for that matter.”
Cecília pursed her lips as she studied him. “How have you been, really? You haven’t been sitting around, waiting to talk to me for three years.”
“I could have been.” He smiled.
She sent him an unamused look. “I’m serious, John. Tell me about London. Where you’ve been. Tell me about anywhere that isn’t here.”
John released a long breath, looking out across the grounds as the conversation moved away from Cecília. “I haven’t spent much time in London lately.”
“You’ve been sailing.”
“A good bit,” he agreed. “And the Pendant—the ship I’m on these days—is actually based out of Boston.”
Cecília blinked in surprise. “You’re living in Boston?”
“I’m not sure it can be said I’m living much of anywhere that isn’t below a deck lately, but we spend a fair deal of time there, yes.”
“How would you know if I had written you, if you aren’t living in London?”
“We go back and forth. Would be quite hard to trade if we stayed in one port all year.”
“What’s Boston like?”
“I rather enjoy it,” he said. “Not exactly as exciting as sailing to India or the Orient, but it’s surprisingly vibrant for such a small city. There’s something in the air there.” He looked back at her. “Does that make me sound odd?”
“Not at all.” She met his eyes, and once again, she was thrown back in time to Senhor Carvalho’s house, when she had been battered and bruised and feeling so vastly different but remarkably similar. She swallowed. “You should take me with you.”
His eyebrows rose. “To Boston?”
“To somewhere.” She moved back onto her knees to face him. “Anywhere. I want to see the world. I’ve always wanted to see it.”
His hand went back to her cheek, his thumb straying dangerously close to her bottom lip. “You know you can’t go with me, Cecília.” His mouth quirked up in a weak attempt at a smile. “Beyond the obvious, you would freeze in Boston this time of year. You lisboetas don’t know how good you have it with your weather.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. And you know I can’t take you anywhere.”
Her throat tried to tighten as a new type of weight tried to constrict around her. “I could stow away.”
All sense of humor drained from his face in an instant. “Don’t even joke about that, or I will tell your uncle not to take his eyes off you until we cast off.”
“I likely could manage. I’ve gotten quite good at sneaking around in the past few years.” Though obviously not as good as she had thought if Tio Aloisio knew about her leaving at night.
“Cecília.” He grabbed both of her shoulders. “You can’t. You know you can’t. You know I can’t let you. If you want to leave, I’m not your way out.”
“You’re the one sailing away tomorrow.”
“Think it through. What happens if you leave with me? You can’t be a sailor. Even if you were a man, what could you do on a ship? Did your father teach you the ropes? To climb rigging?”
“I could learn,” she said, even if she was just being obstinate for the point of being obstinate at that point.
“How, when I’m the only person on that ship who speaks Portuguese?”
I’ll find another ship. She looked away, vaguely wondering what would happen if she somehow commandeered her uncle’s ship. Papai’s ship. It had gone to Tio Aloisio for the same reason the land in the Baixa had gone to Avô Santa Rita, because Francisco was in the Church, and there were no other living sons. Under different circumstances, it would have gone to me...
“What are you thinking?” John asked.
She brought her eyes back to him.
“If memory serves, that’s a dangerous expression to see on your face.”
“I won’t stow away.”
He kept his eyes fixed on her.
“I promise I won’t,” she insisted, widening her eyes as innocently as she could manage.
After a moment, John’s face finally softened, so he apparently believed her. His eyes flicked to her lips, but then he shifted away. “It’s getting late. You should go back in.”
“And you?” If he intended to stay out later, she certainly would too.
“I have to be up early to get back down to the docks.”
And then he’s off across the ocean. “Stay a little longer?”
“Cecília—”
Not able to care anymore, Cecília leaned forward and kissed him. His body reacted immediately, his hand sliding into her hair, pulling her tighter. The smell of salt still clung to him, and she breathed it in, trying to focus on the tingling shooting through her body rather than the guilt in the pit of her stomach.
His hand moved down her side, grasped her waist, then jerked away.
Cecília pulled back far enough to give him a questioning look.
“Sorry.” He glanced toward her side. “I just remembered... your side...”
She gave a breathy laugh. “It’s been healed for years.”
“I know. I mean...” He shook his head. “Just whenever I remember this...”
She watched him as he led off. “You remember this?”
“Well, I remember three years ago,” he said slowly. He touched her side again, as though he needed to make certain her rib was no longer broken, then met her eyes. “I need to go, Cecília.”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“I don’t want you to.”
“And I don’t want to,” he admitted. “That’s why I have to go.”
A hundred arguments fought to find purchase in her mind, her own good sense fighting with the flood of other emotions inside her. Everything turned into an unholy buzzing, and only one thing registered above it all. She just couldn’t care anymore. Either she was long damned, or God was far more forgiving than she was, and either way, nothing mattered.
She leaned back into him, sliding a hand around the back of his neck as her lips met his.
“Cecília,” he said against her mouth in a warning tone.
“Please.” She slid closer to him. “Touch me, John.”
He released a tense breath then said, his voice husky, “Your uncle is right inside.”
She rocked back to get her feet under her, straightened, then held her hand out to him. “Walk with me, then?”
John looked up at her, obvious conflict playing out over his face, but he finally nodded, took her hand, and let her lead him away from her—and Tio Aloisio’s—rooms.
Without thinking, Cecília made her way to the hedge at the edge of the hill. The thick, damp air didn’t quite let her hear the water, but the moonlight did reflect a silvery blue in the distance. She released John’s hand and turned around, tucking her bed dress under her as she sat. Vaguely, she wondered if they should go somewhere else, somewhere not filled with other memories. But maybe she just needed new ones. “This is my favorite place on the grounds.”
“Oh?” John remained standing.
“You can see the river.” She pointed. “Some nights, you can hear it.”
John followed her finger to look where the light was glinting on the water before he shook his head. “It’s cruel you weren’t born a man, isn’t it?”
“I’ve thought so.” Cecília didn’t let herself fall too deep down that hole of what-ifs. “Sit down?”
He turned to face her. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”
She bit her lip, the weight behind the question hitting hard. Still, she nodded. “If you’re leaving tomorrow, I want tonight.”
John stared at her for a final moment before he sat next to her.
Cecília felt her heart beat faster, the little nagging voice making one last valiant effort to get through to her. She pushed it away and shifted so she was straddling his legs. She’d made a decision. Swallowing, she ran her hands up his arms, feeling the lean muscle under his jacket. “You’ve thought about this?”
“Yes.” His voice was deep and throaty again.
“About what, exactly?”
He hesitated. “About things you don’t discuss in polite company.”
She lowered her lips so they were a hair’s breadth from his. “Then show me?”
As if whatever lingering self-control he had been calling upon had suddenly shattered, John slid one rough hand into the hair at the back of her head, and his mouth crashed against hers. Sparks shot through Cecília’s body as his other hand found the small of her back, pressing their bodies flush together.
Cecília slid her hands under the lapels of his jacket, working to push it off his shoulders.
He released his grip long enough to shrug it off. His eyes met hers in the moonlight. “Have you ever... done this before?”
Cecília shook her head, the mix of desire and uncertainty keeping her from speaking.
He took a shaky breath. “You’re certain—”
“Please.” She got that word out, her fingers dropping to brush the simple buttons of his waistcoat.
He released a sharp breath. “You can tell me to stop,” he said quickly before his own hands went to the tie of her bed dress, making quick work of the knot.
Cool air soaked through her thin camisa as the thicker fabric fell off. Cecília felt her skin prickle with gooseflesh. She only moved faster, attempting to undo the buttons of his waistcoat with half the dexterity he had managed with her clothing.
Cecília pushed away all of her thoughts, forcing herself to focus on nothing more than the moment. His hands were now at her hips, pushing the hem of her camisa up as his lips moved toward the low neckline, which made it easier.
“Dear Lord, what do you do to me?” he mumbled softly enough that it seemed to be more a question for himself than her.
“John...” she breathed, waves of hot and cold alternating over her skin as he trailed his lips along the curve of her breasts.
He said something she couldn’t understand.
“What?” She looked down at him, breathing heavily.
“Talking to myself.” He lifted his head so he could kiss her mouth again.
“About what?”
“Cursing we’re outside.”
“Why?”
“Because you have perhaps the most perfect breasts I have ever seen, and I likely shouldn’t take this off.”
She swallowed, another rush of heat moving over her. Silently, she worked her arms out of the thin elbow-length sleeves of her camisa, less gracefully than she had to admit she would have liked, and pulled it over her head. John went entirely still, and Cecília’s skin prickled—from the cold or the awareness of his stare, she couldn’t be certain.
“Jesus Christ.” He once again switched into English, but that one she got.
Before her discomfort at the invocation, considering the situation, could fully set in, John’s hot mouth was once again on her skin. The rough calluses on his palm scraped the soft skin of her back as he pulled her forward, pressing her chest tighter against him. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, and a new rush, so hot it felt as if her blood were burning, rushed straight through Cecília’s core.
She gasped. “Oh...”
He released what sounded like a groan, and his other hand found the inside of one thigh and traced its way up.
Cecília tensed.
John hesitated, his hand stilling where it was as he pulled back to look at her. “Do you want me to stop?”
Do I?
You’re going to Hell, the little voice in her head made one last attempt.
I was anyway, she returned. She shook her head. “No.”
“No... you don’t...?”
“Don’t stop,” she said softly, shifting her hips on top of him.
Another quiet groan, and John’s hand slid the rest of the way between her legs. Cecília sucked in a breath as his rough fingers found a spot so sensitive her entire body reacted. He began rubbing slow circles, and Cecília shut her eyes, the tingles of pleasure beginning to form into a building tension low in her stomach.
“Meu Deus...” She fought to keep her breathing steady as the circling grew faster.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
She’d barely managed to make sense of his words before a finger slipped inside her. She cried out in surprise. The movement slowed, but she shook her head before he could question her. “Oh, please...” she got out in pants, not entirely certain what she was even asking for. “Don’t stop... please...”
She felt him smile against her skin, and his mouth went back to her breasts. A second finger joined the first. The tension coiling in Cecília’s stomach pulled so tightly that her body began to tremble. “John...?”
“Let go, love.” The rubbing turned fervent. “Let go.”
The trembling intensified, tension pulling in so tightly that her toes curled, and then everything shattered. Cecília shouted, jolt after jolt of pleasure shooting through her body as her muscles convulsed around his fingers. She slowly came back down, her body feeling boneless.
John seemed ready for it, freeing his hand to wrap around her and lying her down. The wet grass pricked her bare back, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. He positioned himself between her legs then paused and twisted.
Cecília watched him grab his jacket and pull something out of a pocket, her mind still a little hazy. “What’s that?”
He paused. “I don’t know what you call it. Directly translated... French letter?”
Cecília’s eyebrows furrowed. “A letter?”
He opened his mouth then shut it again, fumbling with the buttons at the front of his breeches. “I’ll explain later. You want me to use it.”
Cecília levered herself up on her elbows, attempting to see but only getting a flash of some sort of ribbon before John was back over her.
He kissed her lightly, nearly chastely, as he touched her face. “Try not to tense, love.”
The haze in her mind faded as her nerves began to build, lying under him, entirely exposed. Still, she wet her lips and nodded. Slipping a hand under her knee, John pushed her leg up and pressed into her.
A soft sound escaped from the back of her throat as her back arched. He slipped in easily enough there wasn’t any pain, but her body struggled to adjust.
He hissed some word under his breath as he stopped, fully inside her.
Cecília’s hips rocked against him of their own accord, the low buzz of pleasure starting again as her body adjusted to the intrusion. “You’re going to have to teach me English if you keep doing that.”
John gave a strained laugh. “I shouldn’t teach you that word. You just...” He kissed her. “Dear Lord, you feel so good.”
Her hips tried to lift again. “Move?”
His body jerked as if it didn’t need the urging, but he still obviously struggled to remain still, the muscles in his arms straining. “If it’s too much—”
“Santos vivos.” Three years, and he still worried over her as much as when she was seventeen. “John, move.”
He didn’t need to be told a third time. Pulling her leg higher around him with one hand, he slid the other into her hair, kissing her as he set a pace. The slow strokes lasted for half a second before he sped up. Cecília closed her eyes, the earlier tension quickly beginning to build again. Her chest rose and fell with quick pants, her hands clutching at the grass then at his back, feeling his muscles flex.
“Say my name,” he said throatily.
“John,” she managed with a gasp.
He groaned. “Again.”
“John.” She panted, her body tightening again, so close to that edge and desperate to go over.
“Again.”
“J—” The rest of his name dissolved into a shout as her body convulsed and those waves crashed back over her, wiping everything from her mind but the rush, every inch of her tingling.
Somewhere, Cecília registered another groan, and after a final thrust, John went still, his hard, warm body resting on top of hers. They both panted, the silence of the night settling back over them.
After a few more breaths, John pushed himself up on his elbows. “Am I crushing you?”
Cecília gave a breathy laugh. “You worry about me too much.”
“Old habit?” He kissed her before he pushed himself up and carefully maneuvered off her.
Cold rushed in as his body heat retreated, and Cecília sat up, suddenly very aware of her nakedness. Quickly grabbing her camisa from where it sat, abandoned on the grass, Cecília attempted to right herself. She looked up again just in time to see John tuck the ribbon thing away.
Cecília frowned. “You said that was a letter?”
John released a breath, as though he had hoped he’d escaped the conversation. “French letters. They... well they stop women from becoming with child.”
“How does it do that?”
“Do you really want me to spend the rest of tonight explaining the mechanics of it, love?” He gave her a small smile before he reached out and touched her.
Cecília’s breath caught in her lungs. She had to force it out again. “Please take me with you. You can teach me English. I’ll find something to do. I—”
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “Even if I wanted to, it’s not my ship. Your uncle would... And, sweetheart, no one could pay me enough to put you on a ship for a month out in the Atlantic with the crew I sail with.”
Anxiety made Cecília’s muscles twitch. “Stay here, then. You could...” The thought hit. “Tio Aloisio doesn’t sail anymore. He pays someone to captain Papai’s ship. You could do that, and I could go with you. It has a Portuguese crew. I could learn to do something.”
A small smile pulled at the corners of John’s mouth, but she couldn’t tell if it was sad or patronizing. “I’m sure your uncle has a perfectly fine captain already. Why would he suddenly hand his ship over to me? Especially if I planned to help you run off?”
Cecília chewed the inside of her cheek, well aware she was clutching at straws. “Tio Aloisio isn’t married. He doesn’t have any children. Francisco and Bibiana can’t inherit. Marry me, and it would likely be your ship, eventually.”
The smile disappeared, and John stared at her, his face blank enough that it made Cecília’s stomach squirm. She tried to think of something she could say to take back some of her babbling, suddenly feeling more exposed than she had out on the grass. Nothing came to her.
“I’m not Catholic,” John finally said.
“You could convert,” she said in a small voice, apparently not able to stop digging herself deeper.
He shook his head. “I couldn’t in good conscience ever tell a priest I intended to be a good Catholic, love. I’m barely considered a good Protestant most days.”
“There can be mixed marriages,” Cecília pressed. “If a bishop gives permission, the Church would recognize it. You are still Chris—”
He kissed her, sliding his hand into her hair to keep her lips locked to his before he seemed satisfied that he had fully stopped her speaking. Slowly, he pulled back, looking her in the eye. “I can’t just jump ship here. The crew needs me.”
“But—”
“Give me a few months.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “Let me get back to Boston and see how things are there. If you still want to run away then, we’ll talk about it.”
She forced herself to pull away from him. “That means no.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She swallowed, forcing down a new rush of emotion. She managed to keep her voice steadier than she felt. “If you leave, I’m never going to see you again.”
“Why would you say that?” He shook his head. “Lisbon might not be what it was yet, but there are plenty of ships that still come in.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You won’t come back.”
“All these ill divinations.” He reached out, brushing a loose curl back from her face. “Promise me you won’t do something foolish like run off by yourself, and I promise I’ll come back.”
The feeling in Cecília’s stomach wouldn’t let her fully believe him, but she tried to convince herself she was being silly and nodded.
John’s hand lingered at the side of her face, his eyes sweeping over her as though he needed to commit that exact image to memory before he kissed her a final time and pulled back. “It’s late. We should get you back before your uncle does think we have run away.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Cecília...” He fixed his eyes on her.
“I agreed I wouldn’t run off by myself. That doesn’t mean I have to go back inside yet.”
“I’d feel better if I helped you back in.”
“I’d feel better if you didn’t go,” she returned.
John shook his head, a small smile returning to his lips. “Are you certain you wish to get married? Something tells me you would struggle with the ‘submit yourself unto your husband’ part of being a wife.”
Cecília pressed her lips together tightly, sucking a breath through her nose before answering. “Perhaps I should marry an idiot. He won’t be intelligent enough to attempt ordering anything, let alone noticing if I don’t obey.”
John only looked more amused. “But you’d be very bored, you’d have to admit. Left to while away your days with an idiot?”
“If I find someone mentally feeble enough, I could probably still take Papai’s ship, and he wouldn’t know the difference. I could travel to Brazil. Or the Orient.”
He continued to smile as though indulging her.
“Or I could go to France and take a lover,” she added, bristling at the look. “French ladies consider that fashionable, so I hear.”
“Then I’ll have to find work in Paris, won’t I?”
She frowned. “You can be infuriating sometimes. Did you know that, Mr. Bates?”
“Obviously why we get on so well, Senhorita Durante.”
Cecília didn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. She twisted to pick up her bed dress and pulled it back on, though it had gotten damp and didn’t do much to keep her warm. “You may leave, if you wish. It’s safe enough out here. I’ll be fine.”
John opened his mouth as though he intended to argue before he finally sighed. “I’ll be back once I have things settled.”
Cecília nodded, though she still didn’t believe him.
After a final, lingering kiss, John stood. Quickly, he pulled his own clothing back in order. “You are something special, Cecília Durante. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Cecília hesitated, not certain what one was supposed to say to a statement like that.
John didn’t seem to expect an answer, offering a formal bow before stepping back. “Good night. Take care of yourself.”
“And you.” Cecília somehow managed a smile. “Good night.”
He took a few more steps backward before he finally turned and disappeared around the hedge, headed the way they had originally come. Silently, Cecília watched him, her hand going to the cross around her neck. Part of her wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to cry. Her mind raced yet felt empty. And all the conflicting emotions left her feeling... calm. Releasing a breath, she turned to put her back to the hedge and looked out at the river. The moon no longer reflected on the water, as approaching clouds seemed to have blotted out everything in the distance. It might as well have been just her and the palace for all she could see.
Fitting, she supposed. Even if John did manage to return within a few months, she was trapped for the time being, and she couldn’t keep going as she had been. Spending her days locked away in her room or church had done no good. And returning to spying was certainly not an option. No, if she couldn’t get on the next ship out of Lisbon, she would have to do something else, something that wouldn’t slowly drive her mad.
The dampness in the air turned into a light drizzle, indicating that whatever storm Cecília had felt in her side wasn’t long off. It would likely pour within a few minutes. Tilting her head back, she let the cold droplets hit her face. First thing in the morning, she would find something to do. Something that was just hers. Something that would give her a fresh start—as fresh a start as she could have while still at court.