When we crossed the quad, it struck me for the first time just how quiet it really was. Instead of walking towards Jericho, I directed Gareth down Great Clarendon Street. “It’s not too cold,” I said. “I thought we could walk along the Castle Mill Stream. I’ve brought sandwiches.”

I could think of nothing ordinary to say as we walked, though Gareth seemed not to notice. We turned into Canal Street and passed St. Barnabas Church. It was only as we were on the towpath that he asked if everything was all right. I tried to smile, but was completely unsuccessful.

“You’re making me nervous,” he said.

I chose a quiet spot dappled with weak sunshine. Gareth took off his coat and spread it on the ground, and I placed mine beside his. We sat, too close for the acrimony I thought would come. I took the sandwiches out of my satchel and passed him one.

“Say it,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Whatever is on your mind.”

I searched his face. I didn’t want anything to change the way he looked at me, but I also wanted him to understand me completely. My mind swirled with images and emotion, and I could not recall a single word of what I had rehearsed. I felt breathless. Got to my feet. Walked beside the stream, gulping air, but still I couldn’t breathe. Gareth called after me, but the rushing in my ears made him sound far away.

I would tell him about Her, I knew that. Though I might not be forgiven. I felt sick, but I turned back.

We sat opposite each other. Each on our own coat, Gareth looking down now, stunned and silent. I’d told him everything. I’d said words I’d been afraid of—virgin, pregnant, confinement, birth, baby, adopted—and I was calmer. The nausea had gone.

I watched Gareth, detached. I might have lost him, but the loss of Her was certain. He might have been disappointed in me, but I was disappointed in myself.

I rose and started walking away. When I looked back he was still sitting where I’d left him, his hand was stroking the coat I’d left behind.

Along Canal Street, I found the doors to St. Barnabas were open. I sat in the Morning Chapel. I don’t know how long I’d been there before Gareth found me and put my coat over my shoulders. He sat beside me. When he took my arm sometime later, I let him lead me back out into the winter sunshine.

When we arrived at the Press, I collected my bicycle and insisted I could ride back to the Scriptorium alone.

Gareth looked at me—no acrimony, but there was a sadness.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said.

“How can it not?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t.”

“But it might, over time.”