Sophie finally arranged all the bookshelves to her liking. Given the chance, she preferred strict organization. So her Dutch grammar was followed, in alphabetical order, by French, German, Italian, Portuguese, and Welsh books. Between Portuguese and Welsh she left a little space. That’s for Turkish, Sophie promised herself. As soon as I get a chance, I shall buy another Turkish grammar.

At lunch Patrick again asked Sophie if she would like him to accompany her anywhere in the afternoon, and again she refused. She was feeling tired, with a dragging ache in her back.

“I met Monsieur Foucault and his companion, Bayrak Mustafa, when they brought the inkwell to the house,” Sophie said abruptly, breaking the strained silence that ruled over luncheon. “I cannot like him, Patrick.”

Patrick looked up, surprised, from the peach he was delicately peeling. He had been lost in a daydream in which Sophie smiled at him the way she used to do.

“Monsieur Foucault? No, he isn’t a terribly likable sort,” he agreed.

“It isn’t a question of likableness,” Sophie said. She really was tired to death. “I understand some Turkish, and his companion was not speaking properly. Monsieur Foucault spoke Turkish, but twice Mr. Mustafa responded in gibberish.”

“Gibberish?” All the uneasy feelings Patrick had had about Monsieur Foucault on their first meeting returned in force—so much so that he didn’t mark the fact that Sophie’s comment revealed a knowledge of Turkish. “I knew there was something odd about that fellow,” Patrick said. “Damme, but I should have been in touch with Lord Breksby from the start!”

Sophie wasn’t certain what he was referring to, but she was too tired to care. After lunch, she slowly plodded upstairs, not realizing that Patrick was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking after her with a worried expression.

She took a nap, but by dinner she felt even more sluggish. Finally, she decided to have a tray in her room. It was exhausting enough just being out of bed, without facing Patrick as well. Patrick ate alone (pheasant again—he must have a word with Floret), wondering whether Sophie was avoiding him or truly not feeling well.

All evening he fought the impulse to go upstairs and see how she was. When he finally gave in, she was lying in bed fast asleep. Patrick looked at her for a moment. Sophie looked exhausted, her face papery white with dark circles beneath her eyes.

Patrick gently laid a hand on her stomach as it rose into the air. Sophie didn’t stir.

“Hello,” he whispered. Then he snatched his hand away, feeling more embarrassed than he had in years. He left the house, his feet leading him on the now-familiar streets nearby.