I turned to look out the window, hoping to distract myself, but the sights went blindly by, as my mind returned, unbidden, to thoughts of my journey. Whatever my feelings for Jamie, whether we would ever see each other again, what we might be, or not be, to one another – still the fact remained that he was in prison. And I rather thought I knew just what imprisonment might mean to him, with the memories of Wentworth that he carried; the groping hands that fondled him in dreams, the stone walls he hammered in his sleep.

More importantly, there was the matter of Charles and the ship from Portugal; the loan from Monsieur Duverney, and Murtagh, about to take ship from Lisbon for a rendezvous off Orvieto. The stakes were too high to allow my own emotions any play. For the sake of the Scottish clans, and the Highlands themselves, for Jamie’s family and tenants at Lallybroch, for the thousands who would die at Culloden and in its aftermath – it had to be tried. And to try, Jamie would have to be free; it wasn’t something I could undertake myself.

No, there was no question. I would have to do whatever I must to have him released from the Bastille.

And just what could I do?

I watched the beggars scramble and gesture toward the windows as we entered the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honore. When in doubt, I thought, seek the assistance of a Higher Authority.

I rapped on the panel beside the driver’s seat. It slid back with a grating noise, and the mustached face of Louise’s coachman peered down at me.

“Madame?”

“Left,” I said. “To L’Hopital des Anges.”

Mother Hildegarde tapped her blunt fingers thoughtfully on a sheet of music paper, as though drumming out a troublesome sequence. She sat at the mosaic table in her private office, across from Herr Gerstmann, summoned to join us in urgent council.

“Well, yes,” said Herr Gerstmann doubtfully. “Yes, I believe I can arrange a private audience with His Majesty, but… you are certain that your husband… um…” The music master seemed to be having unusual trouble in expressing himself, which made me suspect that petitioning the King for Jamie’s release might be just a trifle more complicated than I had thought. Mother Hildegarde verified this suspicion with her own reaction.

“Johannes!” she exclaimed, so agitated as to drop her usual formal manner of address. “She cannot do that! After all, Madame Fraser is not one of the Court ladies – she is a person of virtue!”

“Er, thank you,” I said politely. “If you don’t mind, though… what, precisely, would my state of virtue have to do with my seeing the King to ask for Jamie’s release?”

The nun and the singing-master exchanged looks in which horror at my naivete was mingled with a general reluctance to remedy it. At last Mother Hildegarde, braver of the two, bit the bullet.

“If you go alone to ask such a favor from the King, he will expect to lie with you,” she said bluntly. After all the carry-on over telling me, I was hardly surprised, but I glanced at Herr Gerstmann for confirmation, which he gave in the form of a reluctant nod.

“His Majesty is susceptible to requests from ladies of a certain personal charm,” he said delicately, taking a sudden interest in one of the ornaments on the desk.

“But there is a price to such requests,” added Mother Hildegarde, not nearly so delicate. “Most of the courtiers are only too pleased when their wives find Royal favor; the gain to them is well worth the sacrifice of their wives’ virtue.” The wide mouth curled with scorn at the thought, then straightened into its usual grimly humorous line.

“But your husband,” she said, “does not appear to me to be the sort who makes a complaisant cuckold.” The heavy arched brows supplied the question mark at the end of the sentence, and I shook my head in response.

“I shouldn’t think so.” In fact, this was one of the grosser understatements I had ever heard. If “complaisant” was not the very last word that came to mind at the thought of Jamie Fraser, it was certainly well down toward the bottom of the list. I tried to imagine just what Jamie would think, say, or do, if he ever learned that I had lain with another man, up to and including the King of France.

The thought made me remember the trust that had existed between us, almost since the day of our marriage, and a sudden feeling of desolation swept over me. I shut my eyes for a moment, fighting illness, but the prospect had to be faced.

“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “is there another way?”

Mother Hildegarde knitted her brows, frowning at Herr Gerstmann, as though expecting him to produce the answer. The little music master shrugged, though, frowning in his turn.

“If there were a friend of some importance, who might intercede for your husband with His Majesty?” he asked tentatively.

“Not likely.” I had examined all such alternatives myself, in the coach from Fontainebleau, and been forced to conclude that there was no one whom I could reasonably ask to undertake such an ambassage. Owing to the illegal and scandalous nature of the duel – for of course Marie d’Arbanville had spread her gossip all over Paris – none of the Frenchmen of our acquaintance could very well afford to take an interest in it. Monsieur Duverney, who had agreed to see me, had been kind, but discouraging. Wait, had been his advice. In a few months, when the scandal has died down a bit, then His Majesty might be approached. But now…

Likewise the Duke of Sandringham, so bound by the delicate proprieties of diplomacy that he had dismissed his private secretary for only the appearance of involvement in scandal, was in no position to petition Louis for a favor of this sort.

I stared down at the inlaid tabletop, scarcely seeing the complex curves of enamel that swept through abstractions of geometry and color. My forefinger traced the loops and whorls before me, providing a precarious anchor for my racing thoughts. If it was indeed necessary for Jamie to be released from prison, in order to prevent the Jacobite invasion of Scotland, then it seemed that I would have to do the releasing, whatever the method, and whatever its consequences.

At last I looked up, meeting the music master’s eyes. “I’ll have to,” I said softly. “There’s no other way.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Herr Gerstmann glanced at Mother Hildegarde.

“She will stay here,” Mother Hildegarde declared firmly. “You may send to tell her the time of the audience, Johannes, once you have arranged it.”

She turned to me. “After all, if you are really set upon this course, my dear friend…” Her lips pressed tightly together, then opened to say, “It may be a sin to assist you in committing immorality. Still, I will do it. I know that your reasons seem good to you, whatever they may be. And perhaps the sin will be outweighed by the grace of your friendship.”

“Oh, Mother.” I thought I might cry if I said more, so contented myself with merely squeezing the big, work-roughened hand that rested on my shoulder. I had a sudden longing to fling myself into her arms and bury my face against the comforting black serge bosom, but her hand left my shoulder and went to the long jet rosary that clicked among the folds of her skirt as she walked.

“I will pray for you,” she said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration. “Though I do wonder,” she added meditatively, “exactly who would be the proper patron saint to invoke in the circumstances?”

Mary Magdalene was the name that came to mind as I raised my hands overhead in a simulation of prayer, to allow the small wicker dress frame to slip over my shoulders and settle onto my hips. Or Mata Hari, but I was quite sure she’d never make the Calendar of Saints. I wasn’t sure about the Magdalene, for that matter, but a reformed prostitute seemed the most likely among the heavenly host to be sympathetic to the venture being now undertaken.