FIFTY-ONE

Emma, darling,” John said at breakfast, taking his time as he carefully wiped his mouth, laid his napkin down beside his plate, “I spoke with Governor Croft last evening. I would have discussed it with you when I got home, but you were already asleep.”

And so, the moment I had been dreading for a while, knowing it must inevitably come, was now upon me.

I scanned the table, taking in but not really seeing the common objects of normal family life: jam, toast, yellow remnants of egg on Weston’s plate that he had left, asking to be excused.

Of course, I had never told John about Chance’s impending release at the time I had written my letter impersonating him to the queen, that impending release which was now complete. And John, no longer going to the prison, had no previous reason to learn of it. But now…

And yet, it was galling to think he was about to sit in judgment on me, after what he had done with Lucy.

“Are you listening to me even a little bit, Emma?”

“I’m sorry. You were saying…”

“I said, dear, I went to the prison last night and was assured by Governor Croft that your prisoner is still there.”

“What?”

In my shock, I jerked my arm abruptly, knocking over the silver serving bowl with the dark purple jam in it. It was as though someone had poured a pitcher of ice-cold water over my head, drenching me out of my distracted thoughts.

He called for Lucy to clean up the mess I had made; it struck me as odd, when I saw them so close together, that neither gave any evidence of what had passed between them. It was difficult for me to understand how she could bear to remain under his roof. Was there nowhere else for her to go?

After Lucy had finished and left, John sighed, clearly put out, as though I were a child who was simply too difficult to teach. “Need I repeat the same words a third time?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that…”

“‘Just that’ what, Emma? I don’t understand you. You seem so surprised—almost shocked, really. One would think you would be relieved by the news, relieved that whatever strangeness was going on in Constance’s troubled mind, at least the idea she had of your prisoner now being free, was a false one.”

He was right: I was shocked. How could I not be? I knew that Chance was free; I had been the one to set him free. How, then, was it possible Governor Croft should now say he was still at Hollowgate?

I caught John staring at me, a strange, questioning look on his face. Smiling, I sought to cover my protracted silence.

“Well, of course, I am relieved.” I forced a glittery tone into my voice. “I am amazingly relieved! You are right: It would have been most frightening for me to think my prisoner was free!” That last “my” I threw in for his sake, laughing a laugh almost close to genuine, as if to prove I had returned to being my amiable self.

It seemed to work, for John settled back with his tea, smiling playfully at me over the rim. “Yes, dear,” he said, “now that we know where he is—and Governor Croft assures me he will never be released—you could even resume writing to him again, if you should so desire. You are as safe from him as you have ever been.”

How I would have liked, at that moment, to wipe that smug smile from his face. His words, sarcastically spoken, cut with mockery at the very thing I held most dear.

But his next words were even worse.

“I have been thinking,” he said, “of using Constance’s tall tale of you and your prisoner for the book I have been writing.”

“Excuse me?”

“My book. Surely, you do remember me telling you about my new book. The one about gossip? This, I think, will make a most charming anecdote to add to it.”

I was horrified at the notion. What did he think I was—one of the pretty insects he collected, pinning the prized ones in an open book for show?

Oh, God. Could it really be possible? John thought he was going to put Chance and I in a book?