“So, are we at war now?” Dominic asked, stroking his scalp, whose newly replanted hair was barely long enough to show his tonsure. “If so, thou must help me dress at once.”

“We are not yet at war.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because Caesar has agreed to wait until Ἄναξ… until we… finish at the Vatican.”

For that Dominic set down Pascal. “Then I must dress the sooner. Fetch my clothes at once.”

“Yes, Brother.” I nodded my obedience. “Ἄναξ Jehovah asked for Carlyle, too.”

Everything changed, Dominic’s posture, breath, as if an adversary familiar from the circumscribed play-wars of backyard football had stepped suddenly into adulthood. “Did He say why?”

“No, Brother. Nothing.”

“Better ‘Father’ now, I think,” Dominic corrected, “since I seem to be an abbot suddenly.”

I winced at that, had guessed it from the empty habit on the floor beside the bed. Dominic liked my wince, I think, and studied anew his prisoner. “Release her, errant,” he ordered.

“Yes, Father.”

I freed Carlyle’s right hand first, and she herself assisted with the other bonds, though sluggishly. I handed her her Dominican habit, rude white cloth with the black overlayer. I caught a lightness on her cheeks, almost a smile, as I handed up her nun’s headdress, welcome concealment for the partly golden hair which reminds every gazer of Carlyle’s partly golden ancestry.

“No. Court-wear, fool!” Dominic snapped, too far away to kick me. “In the wardrobe. We can’t wear our habits at the Vatican, it makes the King of Spain uncomfortable.”

“Yes, Father. Apologies.” I helped Dominic change, his reconstructed fingers not yet quite equal to waistcoat buttons, or to easing his taut stockings over the calf. He wore his Master’s black still, trimmed with black lace which lapped at black gloves and black boots, so the scarlet Mitsubishi crests on his haori jacket stood out like gore.

A garment bag held Carlyle’s costume, virgin from the tailors. Its blackness almost matched her abbot’s. Not even the Chevalier, Dominic’s second in Madame’s halls, may wear so much pure black as this. The coal-black satin had no colored trim nor lining, just embroidery along its seams in royal blue, which woke the blue diamond sparkle in Carlyle’s eyes, dimmer than her uncle Ganymede’s, but still as deadly as the glittering bait of old Versailles. It was a gown. I saw relief in Carlyle’s eyes when she saw that, and I thanked Dominic in my heart for this kindness, which cannot have been an easy one; even the bloodhound pays a price for so opposing dread Madame.

“Thou’dst best shower before dressing, Sister Carlyle, thou’rt filthy.” Dominic made for the door, his stiff hands struggling with the iron latch. “You may both catch up with notre Maître and myself when you’re presentable.”