As if—he thought, his own iron will struggling desperately to reassert control, Hamish pounding in his mind like hammer on anvil—as if, small as she was, she could stand in the way of the majesty of the law. “We were discussing the war—” he began in his own defense.

“The war’s over,” she told him. “It’s finished It killed, it maimed, and it destroyed—and yet none of you will let it go! You carry it around with you like sackcloth and ashes, you live with it in your very bones by day and your dreams by night, and treat it like some Holy Grail you brought back with you! Well, it isn’t; it’s a legacy of despair and hate and grievous hurt, and I won’t let it touch me anymore, do you hear me! I won’t let it!”

Rutledge looked at Simon. His eyes were still closed, his breathing ragged and harsh.

But Simon said, “It’s all right, Elizabeth. He didn’t know—he didn’t mean to stir it up. I’m sorry—”

But you did! Elizabeth’s eyes accused Rutledge. And it was just as terrible for you as it was for Simon, wasn’t it?”Go away!” she said aloud. “Go away. Before you both find yourselves on the other side of your nightmares!”

And Rutledge got to his feet, knowing he had to leave, that Simon was past questioning and his own frail peace was shattered as well.

“Simon, I’m back—” It was Aurore who had come in, blocking his escape. She looked at her husband, at Elizabeth fiercely protecting him, her hands dug into the white fabric of his shirt, his eyes closed, their bodies touching, her side against his arm, his head resting on her wrist, an intimacy between them that spoke of comfort offered and comfort accepted on a level beyond friendship. She turned to Rutledge, his face grim and his eyes haunted, staring at her as if he too saw her as an outsider.

Without a word she whirled and went out again, with such a deep grief in her movements that Rutledge could feel her pain and his own inability to assuage it

She was gone, and he still stood where he was, rooted. Until Elizabeth’s voice reached him.

“Go to her,” she said urgently. “Make her understand! I’ll see to Simon.”

“No. It’s better if you go,” Rutledge said. “She won’t trust me.”

But he found himself walking the three paces between himself and the door, and heard Elizabeth saying, “She needs comfort, and she won’t take it from a woman! She’s too strong to let me see her cry!”

And he thought that was true.

He found Aurore up by the churchyard, deep into the dark, shadowed clearing under the trees, her hand lifted to one drooping branch, her head against her upper arm.