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The next day, the king announced a final trial. A golden ring was hidden in a cavern deep underground and guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. Well, Jack put on his suit of night and wind and took up the sharpest sword in the world, and soon enough he stood at the entrance to the cavern. The dragon came roaring out, and Jack had quite a battle, I can tell you, for the dragon was very big. Back and forth they fought, all through the day. It was almost nightfall when the dragon finally lay dead and Jack held the golden ring in his hand. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
A week later, Melisande walked in Hyde Park with Mouse. They’d arrived back in London only the night before. The journey from Scotland had been uneventful—saving for a horrible meal of cabbage and beef on the third day. Last night, Melisande had made a pallet in a corner of her room, and Vale had slept with her there all night. It was an odd a?abbrrangement, she knew, but she was so glad to have him with her, sleeping next to her, that she didn’t care. If she had to make her bed on the floor for the rest of her life, it would be fine with her. Suchlike had given the pallet a curious glance but hadn’t said anything. Perhaps Mr. Pynch had informed her of Lord Vale’s strange sleeping habits.
The wind fluttered her skirts as she walked. Vale had gone to speak with Mr. Horn this morning, probably about Spinner’s Falls. Melisande frowned a little at the thought. She’d hoped that after talking to Sir Alistair, he’d give up the chase, perhaps find some peace. But he was just as intent as ever. Most of the ride back to London he’d theorized and plotted and told and retold her his ideas of who the traitor might be. Melisande had sat and worked her embroidery, but inside, her heart was sinking. What was the likelihood that Vale could discover the man after all these years? And if he couldn’t find the traitor, what then? Would he spend the rest of his life in a fruitless search?
A shout interrupted her gloomy thoughts. She looked up in time to see Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s little boy, Jamie, embracing Mouse. The dog licked the child’s face enthusiastically. Evidently he remembered Jamie. His sister carefully bent to pat Mouse’s head as well.
“Good day,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam called. She had been standing a little apart from her children. Now she strolled over. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Melisande smiled. “Yes, it is.”
They stood side by side, watching the children and the dog for a bit.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam heaved a sigh. “I ought to get Jamie a dog. He begs for one most piteously. But His Grace can’t abide animals. They make him sneeze, and he says they’re dirty.”
Melisande was a little surprised at the casual mention of the other woman’s protector, but she tried to hide it. “Dogs are rather dirty sometimes.”
“Mmm. I expect so, but then so are boys.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam wrinkled her nose, which only made her lovely face more adorable. “And, really, it’s not as if he visits us very much anymore. Hardly once a month in the last year. I expect he has gotten himself another woman, like an Ottoman sultan. They keep ladies like sheep in a herd—the Ottomans, I mean. I believe they call it a harem.”
Melisande could feel herself blushing, and she looked down at her toes.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I? I’m always saying the wrong thing, especially when I’m nervous. His Grace used to say that I should always keep my lips firmly together, because it spoiled the illusion when I opened them.”
“What illusion?”
“Of perfection.”
Melisande blinked. “What an awful thing to say.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam cocked her head to the side, as if considering. “It is, isn’t it? I didn’t realize it at the time, I think. I was very much in awe of him when we first met. But then I was very young too. Only seventeen.”
Melisande truly wished she could ask the other woman how she had beco“ow seme the Duke of Lister’s mistress, but she was afraid of the answer.
Instead, she said, “Did you love him?”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed. She had a lovely, light laugh, but it was tinged with sadness. “Does one love the sun? It’s there, and it provides us with heat and light, but can one truly love it?”
Melisande was silent because any answer she gave would only add to the other woman’s sadness.
“I think one must be equals to love,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam mused. “Equal on some fundamental level. I don’t mean in wealth or even status. I know of women who truly love their protectors and men who love the women they keep. But they are equal on a . . . a spiritual level, if you see what I mean.”
“I think I do,” Melisande said slowly. “If the man or the woman holds all the emotional power, then they cannot truly love. I suppose one must lay oneself open to love. Let oneself be vulnerable.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but I think you must be right. Love is essentially a surrender.” She shook her head. “It would take courage to surrender like that.”
Melisande nodded, looking at the ground.
“I’m not a very courageous woman,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said softly. “In a way, every choice I’ve made in life has been out of fear.”
Melisande looked at her curiously. “Some would say that the life you’ve chosen takes a great deal of courage.”
“They don’t know me.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam shook her head. “To be guided by fear isn’t the life that I wished.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam nodded. “I wish I was able to change.”
