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man courageous enough to shed it.
    A nightmare, not a memory; it had to be. But my cheeks burn with shame.
Don’t deny it! Don’t deny it! He who repents of the mightiest of sins receives the mightiest reward
. This memory has been sent from a higher power to test whether I would be strong enough to accept its truth. It is a hoop of flame through which I must jump for my redemption.
    â€œYes,” I sigh out loud, “I meant to do it. I meant to do it not only in my dream but in reality.” There is such tenderness in my breast now, such a welling for the child, that I know God must be leading me to forgiveness. Why would I feel such sweet pain if not for a purpose?
    I breathe unevenly under the weight of this passion. Sunlight flickers in my face—a cloud has passed—and I shield my eyes again. It is soon after dawn. The sun must be low and gaining power as it skims over the Thames. It is all a sign: the dream, my heartache, the blinding rays on my face. I must follow where it leads. I must discover the fate of the lost child and find where this penance is leading me.
    The infant was stolen from me almost thirty years ago. I remember a rash young Captain Dawson who slipped away from my ship with Jemma, sister of the child’s mother and, I thought, my own loyal slave. They disappeared into the night carrying my baby with them. It was early morning as my cabin creaked and the dawn breezes wafted overhead. I was waiting for the sun to rise over the crags of Hispaniola when one of my crew broke into my cabin, wild-eyed and breathless with the news.
    â€œDawson and Jemma have gone with the baby!”
    I set out at once with fifty crewmen. I followed from the beach to the headland, climbing the swampy hill. They didn’t have a chance. My expert hunters could discern human tracks from the patterns in the dew. We came to a cave, and there, on the very brink of recovering the child, I was called back to the ship. A Spanish fleet had been sighted.
    I had long since discovered the modern alchemy: mingle Spanish ships with musket fire and a liberal draft of Catholic blood, and a harvest of gold will invariably be the yield. I could never say no to this call, nor delay even for an instant. As a monk is to prayer, so was I to open battle with Spaniards. It was dearer to me than life.
    Much later I had intelligence that the child survived. Captain, slave, and infant were outlaws first in the Indies, then in London, and finally on the cold and windblown shores of Newfoundland. The information was nothing to me then, a useless piece of my flesh fallen away in battle. The child could wither or prosper in obscurity, it was nothing to me. I could sire another at my leisure. And I did.
    So why is Providence leading me toward this African child now? And how in the world can I find him after so long?
    __________
    I T’S AS THOUGH NOTHING happened at all last night. Philippa’s eyes are a little red, and it’s a few minutes before she and Maria begin to chatter. By the time they are in the scullery at breakfast, however, the two women are giggling as usual about Jacques, the length of his legs, and other women in the neighbourhood who might have their eye on him.
    Englishmen wear breeches longer these days and show less stocking, a fashion blunder no one had warned Jacques about before he arrived here. Judging from the lively reaction of London women as he walks the streets, it seems his French style is taken as an effort to entice.
    As usual, Maria enjoys the bawdy talk but goes quieter when Philippa brings up the subject of other women. Maria tries to laugh at this too, but it’s clearly a strain, even when Philippa nudges her under the table.
    When Jacques himself comes in and sits down, Maria gives an audible gasp, straightens herself, and when she raises her warm milk to her lips, Gabrielle notices her hand tremble. Maria throws Jacques a mute, longing glance over her cup.
    Gabrielle has never