On shaking legs, Georgie approached the makeshift altar and felt a gust of warm air as the prisoner came to stand beside her. The hairs on her arm rose, as if she’d brushed against a cobweb. She glanced down at her feet; there was an indentation in the flagstones, a concave dip where the stone had been worn smooth. Thousands of others had stood here over the years, pledging their own vows of fidelity.

Cotton opened the Bible to begin the ceremony, and Knollys and Pieter stood to one side to act as the witnesses. Georgie quelled a moment of panic. This was not something to be taken lightly. What was she doing, marrying a stranger? Making a mockery of this solemn institution? Swearing to love, honor, and obey this one man until death? She would probably be struck by lightning for uttering such falsehoods in a sacred place.

The darkness, the flicker of candles, the oppressive cave-like walls, made her feel as though they were participating in a far more ancient ritual. Something primal and profound that included fire and blood and the bonding of hands. Of souls.

She shook her head to banish the thought.

The preacher began.

She did not class herself as a romantic—she left that to her younger sister, Juliet—but this was not how a wedding should be. No flowers, no choir or hymns or beaming, benevolent vicar. No family and friends. Instead, there was this cold, echoing, slightly musty-smelling chapel. Cheap tallow candles instead of the more expensive beeswax they used at home.

Warmth permeated her side as the prisoner shifted closer to her, almost as if he were offering silent support. His hip and shoulder pressed against hers and lent her strength.

Her voice didn’t shake when she spoke her vows. This was a matter of self-preservation, of protecting Mama and Juliet. She would not falter. The man at her side was not Josiah.

The prisoner repeated his vows, his voice low and confident, his accent less pronounced. Perhaps he was making an effort to speak properly for the occasion.

Pieter had purchased two plain gold rings, which he laid flat on the open Bible in the ordinary’s hands. Cotton launched into a blustering speech about the sanctity of this and submitting to that; Georgie barely listened. But her heart jolted as the prisoner took her left hand and slid a ring on her fourth finger. The metal was cool, but quickly warmed to her skin.

His own hands were large and capable; she felt the heat of his palm, the strength in his long fingers, as they reversed positions and she threaded the ring onto his left hand. It stuck on his knuckle, but she wriggled and twisted, and it finally slid on. Instead of letting her hand drop, his fingers threaded through hers, steady and oddly comforting.