“Charles is quite a good match,” Ariadne said as if she were discussing the quality of a piece of cloth. “Nothing has been settled, but we should reach an agreement soon. But come, Anna, come. Sit.”

Ariadne took Anna’s hand and led her over to one of the sofas.

“That won’t be for at least another year or more,” Ariadne said. “You heard Charles. It’s a year before I even see him again. All that time, I will spend with you.”

She drew a small circle on the back of Anna’s hand with her finger, a gentle motion that took Anna’s breath away. Ariadne was so beautiful, so warm. Anna felt like she was being torn to pieces.

“Surely you cannot wish to marry Charles,” said Anna. “There is nothing wrong with him, but he is … Do you love him?”

“No,” Ariadne said, clutching Anna’s hand tighter. “I do not love him that way, or any man that way. All my life, I have looked at women and known only they could pierce my heart. As you have pierced it, Anna.”

“Then why?” Anna said. “Why marry him? Because of your parents?”

“Because that is the way the world is,” Ariadne said, her voice shaking, the way it had when she had first asked Anna if she might kiss her. “If I were to tell my parents the truth about myself, if I were to reveal who I really am, they would despise me. I would be friendless, cast out, alone.”

Anna shook her head.

“They would not,” she said. “They would love you. You are their daughter.”

Ariadne drew her hand back from Anna’s. “I am adopted, Anna. My father is the Inquisitor. I do not have parents who are as understanding as yours must be.”

“But love is what matters,” said Anna. “I would have no one but you. You are all to me, Ariadne. I will not marry a man. I only want you.”

“And I want children,” Ariadne said, lowering her voice in case her mother was returning. “Anna, I have always wanted to be a mother, more than anything else in the world. If I had to bear Charles’s touch, it would be worth it for that.” She shuddered. “I shall never, never love him as I love you. I thought you understood—that this would be a bit of happiness we could snatch for ourselves before the world forced us apart. We can love each other for the next year, before Charles returns—we could have that time and always remember it, hold it close to ourselves—”

“But when Charles returned, it would be over,” Anna said coldly. “He would claim you. That is what you are saying.”

“I would not be unfaithful to him, no,” Ariadne said quietly. “I am not a liar.”

Anna stood up. “I think you are lying to yourself.”