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talking, a laugh, but other than that, she did not notice. Her attention was on her composure and the fact that her knees felt as if they wobbled when she walked.
    The steward led her to the far end of the hall, where a steep flight of stairs led to a covered interior corridor.
    A small oil lamp illuminated a painting of a glade, heavily forested and deeply green. In the middle ofthe mural, a pool shone with such glistening brilliance that she touched the wall to test whether her fingers would come away wet.
    Jerard threw open the second of three doors. She reluctantly left the mural and stood on the threshold as he turned, walked to the opposite door, and rapped his fist sharply against the iron-banded wood.
    â€œShe is here, my lord,” he said to the closed door.
    Not your bride, not Juliana, not lady. Only she. Simply she. It relegated her to her exact position in life. The female to his male. She was only a vessel to her husband, whose contempt for her must be fierce indeed that he had not even greeted her himself, but had sent his steward to fetch her.
    She turned, squared her shoulders, and entered the room. An oil lamp, its flickering flame casting shadows over the walls, illuminated the room, revealed her chests neatly arranged at the end of the bed.
    The chamber was as beautifully decorated as the great hall, made bright by the white wainscoting with red roses painted above it. Juliana sat down on the bed, sinking into the thick feather mattress with surprise. Her fingers rubbed over the snowy white sheets, expecting them to be rough to the touch. Instead, they were soft, as if they had been laundered often. She stood and opened the tall chest placed against the wall. It was empty, and smelled of new wood. A bench and two chairs made up the remainder of the furniture.
    It was the window, however, that captured her attention. It was not merely a narrow slit, but wide and nearly her height, topped by an arch whose stones were decoratively carved. But it was not its size that amazed her. The window was glazed withglass not the usual greenish white tint but as clear as water. When she looked down she could see an inner courtyard, its outlines blurred by darkness. During the daylight hours the sun must flood into the room. She brushed her fingers against the surface of the glass, discovered that it was still warm to the touch.
    She turned and stifled a sound of fright.
    A specter stood there watching her. A shadow limned in light. No, only a man garbed in monk’s habit. But he seemed so tall, so broad of chest, that he filled the doorway. Indeed, he looked to be more than a mortal man.
    â€œAre you Death?” she asked in a tremulous whisper.
    â€œCome to judge you in your final hour?” His voice was low, a rumble of sound. Had he spoken, or had she just imagined the words? “What would you confess if I were? Or does your silence indicate a pure soul?”
    Not Death then. Death did not speak in a voice that hinted at irony. She felt absurdly weak, as if her knees wished to give out beneath her.
    â€œAre you a zealot, then?” she asked, hearing the tremble in her voice and wishing she was capable of hiding it.
    â€œNo.”
    His cowl shadowed his face so well that she could see no hint of his features. She clenched her hands together at her waist, forced herself to take a deep breath, ask yet another question.
    â€œA monk?”
    The words came softly, seemed tinted with kindness. “I am your husband, my lady wife.”
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    Her hand reached out and rested at her throat as if to keep her heart from leaping there.
    She was a stranger to him, yet there was a resemblance to the child he’d seen once before. The shape of her lips, the symmetry of her face, the color of her eyes, her hair. But whereas the child had viewed him without fear, it was all too evident that this woman was afraid. Her eyes had not veered from him, as if hoping to pin him in place and halt his