That was the first weight upon me as we flew toward Spain. Though younger, less church-scarred Hives are not so strict, a European Member who would visit a reservation to discuss theology must bring their sensayer as chaperone, and, though Ἄναξ Jehovah remains a Minor, when in Rome He does as His Spanish father does. When we reached Las Huelgas, the whole nunnery was aflutter with preparation for the expedition, for Madame must have her ladies, and her ladies must have their escorts, and all must have their sensayers, so the visit multiplied like ivy from what had seemed a single chute. The young Master required no such complex entourage, but He did require His sensayer, and thus sent me to fetch him.

Good reader, how much I would have given to not step into that room. How much I would give to not remember now. But when such a Lord hands down commands, a man submits, even if it costs him scars. I did step into that room in Las Huelgas, and I saw there Carlyle Foster-Kraye de La Trémoïlle.

When we were ready to go, Dominic followed me out into the hall and—

When thou wert ready? Thou canst not leave it there, Mycroft. What happened? What didst thou see? How fares our Carlyle?

Oh, reader, do not ask, I pray you. It has not been easy shielding you thus far from Carlyle’s state. Better that you remember the first Carlyle you saw, arising daily full of strength, a welcome friend in Bridger’s wild garden, smiling.

I do not like to repeat myself, Mycroft. At my command thou servest. What didst thou see?

As you command, reader. To your judgment, however little I may understand it, I subject my flawed and failing own.

It was Dominic’s cell, his books and stark necessities transplanted from Madame’s so faithfully that the order of the papers, the icon of Jehovah on the wall, even the smell seemed just the same. The bed was his same stiff wood-framed palette with the thumb-thin mattress still upon it, and upon that mattress lay Carlyle Foster-Kraye, tied down with wrists and ankles lashed fast to the bed frame. Carlyle’s Cousin’s wrap and long sensayer’s scarf were nowhere, but a habit lay discarded on the floor beside the bed, Dominican black and white. Sweat made Carlyle’s bare chest sticky, while dried spit crusted the gag that stifled what I doubt were even words. Tear-crusted eyes twitched with the inhuman wildness of one transported beyond the here and now, while Dominic, as fired with zeal as I had ever seen him, sat on a stool at the far corner of the room, reading aloud from the Pensées of Blaise Pascal: