Lucy had no idea how to react to him, and then she watched him turn his head away from her, and from the window, back to the man in red. Then he spoke again, as clearly as he had spoken to her earlier tonight: “The Church is flawed, Your Grace. It has lost touch with the pure teachings of the Apostles, who converted people with preaching and the example of a good life. But now, anyone who does not wish to be a Catholic must endure pain and punishment. Force, and not love, is used to convince doubters of the ‘truth.’”

And then he turned quietly away from the man whose power held his earthly fate, and looked again at the bright spirit of Lucy, as though he were a man possessed, talking, he might have said, to angels: “The soul of man, Lucina, be very sure, is the only god there is. And how shall we honor it?”

And now the man—he must have been a cardinal, Lucy thought—was saying something Lucy could hardly hear to the man on the floor; something about him locking himself into his own prison, his own fate, and throwing away the key. His voice then rose to a volume Lucy could hear clearly as he addressed the man’s jailers. “Hand him over to the city authorities to do what they must; but see he is given a merciful death inasmuch as it is possible, without the shedding of blood.”

Lucy saw that he had been forced to kneel for some time; but now the monk rose to his modest but full height. “It is with far greater fear that you pronounce, than I receive, this sentence.” His voice was utterly calm, without anger or fear. The words silenced everyone present.

She watched these actions play out in front of her, devoid of any physical strength or bodily control of her own. She was paralyzed by the sound of boots on stones, saw the frosty breath of the figures in her mystery play, felt cold herself, thought her limbs were heavy and far away. She moved in her bed and felt the wires that were attached to her chest through her half-sleeping state, saw the shadow of an angel sitting near her with his head bowed; and then she closed her heavy lids again and slept on.

When she woke it was a sunshine morning, her body felt as light as a feather, and her heart was thrumming musically according to her own impressions. The chair was vacant but for her own familiar overnight bag, which must have come courtesy of Grace; but on the table next to her she found a tiny bouquet of miniature pink roses and a note written in pen and ink, in a bold italic hand:

For sleeping Ariadne, when she wakes. I have my son today, but tomorrow I am free. Are you brave enough to join me with some friends for lunch in Mortlake?