It was the best advice Hannah had to offer, and Jennet wanted no part of it. Her cousin must have seen that in her face, because her own expression sharpened.

Hannah said, “Do you know what I regret most? The things I didn’t say to Strikes-the-Sky. The morning I saw him last, the things I should have said. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Jennet nodded, and shuddered, and nodded again. “Send him to me, would you?”

When Luke came a half hour later, there was a fine beading of sweat on his forehead. Jennet had a sudden picture in her mind of Hannah speaking to him, a finger raised in admonition. It made her smile. He smiled back at her.

In his hands he carried a tray with bread and fruit and cheese, and under his arm a bottle of wine. He put these things down on the small table under the porthole and then turned to her like a man awaiting sentencing. “It’s not much, as wedding suppers go.”

Jennet held out her hand. “It’s not the food I care about. Come sit by me,” she said. And then: “Do you remember the night you came to me with the pennyroyal ointment, when I went to sleep in the hay barn?”

“You were sulking, and so I seduced you into a better mood.”

Jennet laughed, because he meant her to. “If you care to remember it that way.”

He touched her face. “I remember the promises we made, under the waterfall.”

She reached up and kissed him, felt his surprise and his delight and his caution, too, and so she kissed him again, putting her hands on his face and pulling him down to her.

He held back for a moment, and then he relaxed against her with a sound that came up from his belly. Jennet pressed her forehead against his and closed her eyes. She said, “I was never raped. I want you to know that.”

She felt the words work on him, the way they dug into his mind and then, more slowly, moved through him, muscle by muscle. His arms went limp and then tightened so that she gasped.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” he said. His gaze was steady, though his tone had coarsened a little.

“I might have been,” Jennet said. “But I killed the first man who tried. I stabbed him, and after that the others left me alone.” She would have gone on, but he pulled away to look in her face.

“But that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Jennet said.

“Were you punished?”

“No,” Jennet said. “It amused Dégre, to—the whole episode amused him. I would do it again, and without hesitation.”

“Of course you would,” he said, his mouth touching hers. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

And then he kissed her, his mouth intent: And here was the surprise, that there were still such kisses to be had in the world, from a man like this one. Who could make her remember desire, and feel it again, that twist and pulse deep in the belly, the knowledge that it was there all along through all the months she had come to see herself as not an empty vessel, but a broken one. His voice was deep and rough and there was a trembling there, one that matched her own.

“Let me remind you,” he said. “Let me show you.”

It was ten days since he had come to Priest’s Town to save her. He had slept beside her chastely, and held her when she wept, and comforted her as a brother comforts a grieving sister, and through all that Jennet had sensed him waiting and wanting, his body impatient for her but kept in check. She wondered how she could ever give him the things he deserved, the touch he wanted.

She turned to meet him, tasted salt on his skin and tears, and made herself a promise she wanted to keep, but could not be sure of, not yet.

Chapter 8

Hannah heard Jennet’s voice first, and realized that she had been outwitted. She picked up her skirts and trotted around the corner of the kitchen building into a small, well-kept garden alive with butterflies. In the middle of it, four women sat in the shade of an arbor heavy with flowering vines. Between Jennet and Titine sat an elderly woman with the bearing of a queen and the inquisitive, alert look of a girl of ten. She might be called a free woman of color by Preston and others like him, but to Hannah’s eye she seemed white. Beside her sat another, older woman, this one far darker of complexion but no less alert. One of her eyes had gone the milky color of marble, and the hands in her lap were so swollen at the joints that they seemed hardly human.

Among these women Jennet’s head of blond curls looked almost doll-like, but the stare she sent Hannah was pure defiance.

Hannah forced herself to smile as she approached. It was true that Jennet was pale, but the hands wrapped around the bowl of milk were steady, and the shadows under her eyes were no worse than Hannah’s own. More than that, Hannah had the sense that these women were well aware of Jennet’s condition and could be trusted to watch her closely.

“My sister-in-law Hannah,” Jennet said. “I was wondering when you’d come to find me. Let me introduce you. This lady is Mme. Valerie Maurepas, Titine’s mother. And that is Gaetane, Madame’s servant. They have a great deal to tell us.”

It was clearly Gaetane’s role to tell stories, and she was very good at it, though she allowed Titine and her mother to add the occasional comment or detail.

Hannah had the idea that it had always been this way, since the day Archange Poiterin had bought a cottage on the rue Dauphine and installed Valerie there with two slaves of her own to look after her, one of whom was a twenty-year-old Gaetane. Together they had been expelled from that same cottage, and together they had come to Pensacola to live with Valerie’s only daughter.