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our gate. No more going out when I tell you to stay.”

I looked at the key. I had gone to him so often with warm hands

and a foolish hope of making him want me again. He would take

my hand, or kiss my mouth, and for a little I would forget all the

questions he had not answered. Afterwards the chest remained

shut.

“You love my skill when it serves you,” I said. “You take their

thanks at the door. You take their gifts. When they fear me, you let

me stand alone.”

“What gifts?”

“The two fowls you fed to your guest. The money for linen which

went into your purse. I cut up my own smock for Joan, and you

thanked her husband for his generosity.”

“This is my house.”

“It was to be mine when you brought me here.”

He turned away. I caught his sleeve, for I could not bear that he

should leave me with the words unsaid once more.

“Nicholas. Look at me.”

He did. I wished he had not. His face held none of the tenderness I

remembered, and still I could not cease looking for it.

“I am your wife,” I said. “If they come asking what I do here, will

you remember that?”

“If who come?”

“The men whose questions you are so afraid I shall answer.”

He pulled his sleeve free. “You have been heard speaking against

the Mass.”

“By you.”

“You cannot be certain who else listened.”

“In our bed?”

He would not meet my eyes then.