She felt it stir for a second time now as they entered the swordslipper’s shop and a middle-aged man in a fine-looking suit, having come forward to greet the captain, then smiled at her warmly and said, “And I see you have brought us our Lily.”

The captain was holding her hand still. He gave it a small, reassuring squeeze. “Our Lily, actually, but we will give ye the loan of her for a wee while.”

Mr. Bell had a long face and prominent cheekbones and brown eyes edged with deep-set lines that let her know he often smiled. He wore a long wig, like a gentleman—dark, like the king’s—and his coat had long rows of brass buttons that gleamed just like gold.

“You couldn’t keep her now anyway,” he told the captain. “I’ve heard you’re headed to London.”

“Aye. Though I’ll be back afore ye’ve had a chance to miss me, if I have my way. My business should not take that long.”

“I wonder that the Privy Council lords would let you go, with all the trouble we have had in town of late.”

The captain admitted there’d been some debate. “They granted me a furlough only yesterday. I mean to be away afore they reconsider.”

“How is the edge of your sword?”

“Sharp enough.” But the captain unbuckled his sword belt and passed it, with scabbard and all, to the swordslipper, who, after expertly judging the blade, found it wanting, and handed it to his apprentice. “It will not take long. Now, Jamie, has anything caught your eye?” He asked the question as if Jamie were a true customer.

Jamie drew up to his full height and pointed. “May I please see that one?”

“Of course.”

He had chosen a broadsword, the shield of its handle inlaid with bright floral work picked out in silver against a black finish. Mr. Bell patiently answered his questions, explaining the blade had been partly blued to resist rust, and that bluing was done by applying heat in the right way, and that he’d made its handle—its hilt—in his shop, but the blade had been made on the Continent. His job was fitting them all into one, and then making the scabbard and mounting, and—

“Is this who made the blade?” Jamie asked, reading aloud the etched letters: “Andrea Ferara?”

Mr. Bell smiled. “Yes, and no. Andrew Ferara was a gifted bladesmith from Italy, born to a family of armorers. He knew the secret to tempering blades so they were of the very first quality. But he’s been dead more than a hundred years now, so his name marked on a sword blade does not mean he forged it personally, only that it was made by his method and, one hopes, by someone approaching his skill. The maker will leave other marks. You see here, this small figure of a running wolf? That shows this is a German blade, from Solingen.”

Jamie leaned in close to look. “It doesn’t look like a wolf.”