later I returned to my room, dripping with sweat and feeling as though I’d run to Paris and back. I was delighted to see that Jehan had prepared a bath for me, the wooden tub lined with linen. I wasted no time but quickly stripped and eased myself into the steaming water, enjoying the scents of costmary and lavender. My anatomy had been considerably altered from what I seemed to remember; only the occasional scar seemed the same. I had been only a bit above middle height, somewhat awkward and gangly; now I was tall, lean and muscular, and my strength, agility, and grace were extraordinary, or would be when I recovered from the months of enforced inactivity. But I was half blind, and was having to learn to compensate. Again and again Geoffrey would attack from my blind right side, and I, who would have been hard put to best him even with two good eyes, would overcompensate, allowing him an opening and receiving a blow that resulted in a spectacular bruise. Being yet unused to the ministrations of a body servant, I dismissed Jehan, and when the water began to cool I dried myself, reveling in the feel of the old soft linen against my sensitive skin. I dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for me, midnight-blue velvet doublet and breeches, pearl-grey silk shirt, and silver-lace band. I pulled on my boots, wandered down stairs, and, hearing quiet voices from the study, tapped on the door.
“Ah, Kit! Come in, my boy,” Nicolas called happily. “We were just discussing whether we should send someone to tip you out of that bath!” I laughed and took my usual seat between them. I stroked the velvet of my sleeve for a moment, then “What happened to my things?” I asked suddenly. Nicolas sighed. “I was unable to get them. Someone was there before me, from the council, I suspect. All of your personal belongings were attached by your landlord to pay your rent, and your friend Nashe rescued the manuscripts from being used for fire-starters, or to line pie-dishes. I believe that Thomas Walsingham has them now. Chapman is completing the Hero and Leander—” he broke off at my confused look. “It was the poem you were writing at the time of your death,” he explained gently.
“Oh, of course,” I said, and stretched, a little self-consciously, trying to cover my embarrassment. “My clothing would ill fit me now, anyway, I suppose. I rather think that I could pass unknown among my closest friends.”
“That is frequently the case, and understandable when you consider that we undergo tremendous physical changes. It is only logical that some of them are external. It also serves our survival if we do not look exactly as we did in life; it precludes some embarrassing questions.” We sat in silence for a time, each considering the changes in our lives. I toyed with the ring I wore and tried to remember. I had probably never had much in the way of jewelry, I thought, and then suddenly remembered a pearl earring Tom had given me . . . I started to reach up, even though logic told me it was gone.
“They took it, Kit, and gave it to Poley for part of his pay,” Nicolas said quietly. I hastily asked him if he had taken vengeance upon those responsible for Rózsa’s illness and the loss of her family. Nicolas settled back into his chair and gazed keenly at me for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes, I too had my scores to settle,” he said. “Oh, I could not kill the Inquisition, much as I would enjoy doing so, but I could, and did seek out the individuals responsible for Rózsa’s imprisonment, and the death of her parents. The Abbess who had tried to work her to death had died herself that winter, and so was beyond our reach, but Rózsa’s aunt paid full measure, though only indirectly with her life.
“In my lifetime I was very successful in business matters, so I looked into the interests of the family, and within only a few years we owned it all: Rózsa’s aunt lived out her life on her niece’s charity.” Nicolas’ grin was no less gloating and wolfish, but his memoir was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, and Anneke’s entrance. Once again I noted the glow about her, a glow that I did not see in Geoffrey or Nicolas, or, come to that, in myself.