Just outside the inn’s back door she screwed her eyes up tightly in that moment of decision, and then calling on each scrap of courage she could claim, she fled into the courtyard as though every English spy upon the continent were at her back.

She had no destination in her mind but finding Father Graeme, and for that, the church spire soaring high above the tiled rooftops of the huddled, leaning houses seemed a beacon to her. Monks were men of God, she reasoned. God was in the church. So Father Graeme would be there, as well.

Except, when she had finally pressed her way through all the people in the alleys and the streets to reach the relatively open space surrounding the great church, she saw no sign of him. And when she tried to enter in the church itself an old man chased her out again, reproving her in French.

She said, in English, “Please, I need to find my friend, the monk.”

The old man answered in her language, with a frown, “No monks live here,” and waved her off towards the south. Which only brought her back to where they’d entered in that morning, by the great gate in the high stone wall.

The gate, as it had been then, was still busy with the streams of people moving round and through it, while the soldiers standing near the heavy chains of the portcullis gave approval to the passports and the papers, and the Searchers opened portmanteaus and trunks. The Searchers now seemed very busy with the portmanteaus belonging to a gentleman who stood beside a carriage while the driver tried to hold the four impatient horses dancing on the cobblestones.

The gentleman, to Anna’s eyes, appeared to be the same age as the monk—not yet as old as Colonel Graeme, nor as young as Captain Jamieson, but somewhere in between, though Anna never found it such an easy thing to tell the age of any man who wore a wig. His shaven face was very handsome, and his clothes were very fine, and he stood tall and straight and calm, so that the hard set of his jaw alone betrayed his own impatience.

A heavier-set man with no baggage strolled past the carriage and, tipping his hat, said, “A pleasant journey, Captain Gordon.”

Captain Gordon. Anna suddenly remembered where she’d heard that name before. The man who’d come across with Mrs. Ogilvie just yesterday had been a Captain Gordon. Mrs. Ogilvie had been complaining to the Englishmen about the captain’s being in a hurry, and the trouble he had been to her. “He is no friend of mine,” she’d said.

Which was, in Anna’s view, a very large point in his favor.

She moved closer to him, wondering if she could trust him just enough to ask him where the monks lived in Calais, when someone called out, “Anna!”

Without thinking, she turned round. She’d hoped it might be Father Graeme, but she did not see him, and her gaze began to dart around in panic as she looked for the two Englishmen, who must by now, along with Mrs. Ogilvie, have noticed she was missing from the inn. She did not see them, either; but she did see the old man who had just chased her from the church, and with him two priests dressed exactly like the priest who’d been the nuns’ confessor at the convent.