Scarlet’s free hand went up to her mouth, and her eyes shone with new tears. “Oh, Matteo.” She pulled him to his feet.

Hope flickered, and he tried to communicate the depth of his feelings with the strength of his gaze.

She said, “It is too soon. Ask me again another day. I cannot imagine refusing you anything. But for now, it is too soon.”

He tried to keep most of the disappointment out of his eyes; nevertheless, he saw acknowledgment of it cross her features.

She reached for his face, gently cradling his cheek in her hand. “Do not misunderstand. You have become my everything. Every day I long for you, love you even, but I need more time.”

Exultant victory surged through him. Bringing her hand to his lips, he said, “I am yours. And every day I will wonder if today is the day you will be mine. I can be patient. I will wait, with joy even, knowing I have your love.” He bowed to her, squeezing her hand in his own, and then turned to walk down the path and around the house to the dowager cottage.

Chapter Ten

Paris, France

Two weeks of knitting. Days of heat under the scalding sun. Scarlet almost forgot she used to be clean and comfortable. The memory of Matteo’s impetuous proposal remained a constant strength and comfort; she grinned inside thinking of it. But to all around her, she grunted in concentration. The grime caked in the lines of her hands dirtied the yarn as a brown fingernail moved over each stitch and she counted her knitting. An old hag-like woman with wild gray hair, she muttered numbers to herself. “Forty-five, forty-seven, forty-nine.” Those numbers might mean nothing to anyone else, but to her, they spelled a name. She raised her hand into the air. “Jacques Pierre!” Then she returned to her counting.

Most of the crowd gave her no mind. She sat with a brooding circle of women who claimed their spot every day, front-row witnesses to the executions. Spies for the Revolution, their daily tasks consumed them: knitting code, making lists with their stitches, eyeing every person with looks of supreme suspicion—their breathing heavy, their concentration unmatched. Skin feverish and hearts racing, the women anticipated with great pleasure the next denouncement, first worked with their own fingers the coded numbers in each line of knitting. Visitors could almost smell the blood on them.

Just like this morning, every morning they arrived early, staking out their place of honor among all the guests of Paris to watch the beheadings. A heckling clutch of hags, screeching and fluttering and calling out as each victim took the stage.

“Jacques Pierre!” The woman shouted again.

The crone next to her breathed old onion into her face. “Eh? Jacques Pierre. Pretty sounding one, that.”

Gray strands shook as she nodded proudly. “That he is. Too pretty.” She cackled with laughter.