It wasn’t quite a question, but she wanted to be honest with Lucas. “Remembering my Caitlin was shocking and painful, but at the same time . . . freeing. I hadn’t realized there was a dark hole in my past until I recalled her, and that brief moment when I held her.” She fell silent for the length of a city block before continuing. “Remembering her, I feel the lost possibilities. I’ve wondered what she would be like if she had survived. Would she be a tomboy like me? Would she look like Christopher? As twins, would they have been very close?”

“Inevitable questions,” he agreed.

“Yes, but losing infants is sadly common, something many parents have endured.” She drew a slow breath before adding, “My pain is not unique, and there is comfort in that knowledge.”

“You’re very wise.”

“I’m not sure about wisdom, but I’m trying to accept what cannot be changed and move forward. The most important part of my future is getting Christopher back.”

“Tell me about him,” Lucas said, looking as if he really was interested.

Once again, his understanding was a balm. “Never ask a mother about her child for your ears will be bored off!” How to describe her son, who was the light of her life? “I’m completely biased, of course, but I think he’s a lovely little boy. Healthy and sunny-natured and terrifyingly fearless. He loves riding and playing with the neighborhood children, but he also loves reading and learning.”

“Is he kind?”

“That’s an unexpected question, but it’s one of the most important traits, isn’t it?” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, he’s kind to other children and he’d bring home injured animals and we’d nurse them together. He adores his pony, Patches.” She swallowed, a catch in her throat. “Or he used to. When Denshire took him away, Patches was left behind.” Christopher had been wrenched away from everything he knew and loved. She tamped down the despair she felt at the knowledge that she might never see her boy again.

“We’ll find him,” Lucas said with quiet firmness.

She drew an unsteady breath. “Sooner rather than later, I hope. But let’s talk about you. What was your life like when you were a traveling friar?”

“It was generally quite pleasant,” he said, accepting the change of topic. He gazed out the window, where the thinning edges of London were visible. “It was a quiet, rural life. We traveled on our mules and Frère Emmanuel was greeted with pleasure wherever we went. We would stay in farmhouses or villages or barns. Sometimes sleeping on straw in stables.”

“How very biblical!”