“Have you ever seen her?” demanded the monk, twisting his arm over his head to grab hold of his ear.

He was talking about the bishop.

“From a distance.” Thanakar paused, then continued. “Tell me about Charity Starbridge.”

“You’re to blame for it,” exclaimed the monk severely, screwing the heel of his hand into one eye. “By God you’re to blame.” He glared at him and sat back.

“I know.”

“Don’t say that. They’re to blame. The evidence wasn’t enough to swing a cat. A washerwoman’s testimony—there was something on the sheets. A laundress—her blood wasn’t even good enough to make a deposition. Charity Starbridge never even could have been arrested on the evidence they had, not without a full confession. By that time she was a widow, for God’s sake. And she wouldn’t tell them anything. Not one word. Not her. But Chrism wanted her confession. So he lied to her. He told her you yourself had brought the charge, claiming you had been infected. Morally infected; physically . . . I don’t know. He didn’t care. It was you he wanted. He wanted her testimony so that he could hang you. But she refused to say a word against you. She poisoned herself. Two days ago.” The monk broke off, tears in the corners of his eyes. He flicked them away with his thumbnail, a gesture so unnatural that it absorbed all of Thanakar’s attention.

“And did she confess?”

“Not one word, I tell you. Not one word,” the monk repeated, a little bitterly. “She was a proud woman.

But look at this. She left a note.” He pulled a paper from his sleeve. “I received it this morning.

Next-of-kin. It’s tragic. The old families are almost gone.” He spread the paper out on his knee. It was filled with a complicated, beautiful, unknown script, illuminated with gold and scarlet.

“What does it say?” asked Thanakar.

The monk peered at it. “It’s the language of the prophets,” he said doubtfully. “She always was a clever girl. I didn’t think anyone still knew it.”

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘Goodbye.’ ”

“Just . . . goodbye?” asked Thanakar, looking at the maze of paint and letters.

“Goodbye,” repeated the monk, twisting up his face. “That is a rough translation. Those prophets never meant exactly what they said.” He turned away, stroking his silver ear.

“May I have it?” asked Thanakar.

Uncomfortable, the monk got up. He paced behind his chair, making quick, random gestures with his arms. “I’m not sure she meant it for you,” he said.

Thanakar stayed seated, looking at the floor between his feet. “This might sound strange to you,” he said.

“But I didn’t know her very well.”

The monk made an irritated gesture. “Who knows women well?” he asked. “Who knows anybody well?

This is not the season for sentimental friendships,” he said, tears in his eyes. “Not the weather for it. They say my grandparents loved each other. A family legend. No. Don’t flatter yourself. Charity Starbridge had a fine marriage. The commissar was like a father to her.”