the margin, half-hidden by her forefinger. She took away her hand and read it.
Now she really did feel queasy. Extracts made so far. April 21st, 1813.
Bishop’s transcripts. She had completely forgotten about them. Maybe Mr. Waddell wasn’t in on the plan—René had said he wasn’t—but his was the most unkindest cut of all. He had copied out the false entries with the true and sent them all to the bishop.
Serena closed the register quietly and sat down. Organ music swelled in the background like a cheap melodrama. She couldn’t quite get enough air. She was married.
René could do anything he liked to her. And he owned the Arms.
For the next ten minutes Serena sat on the hard wooden bench, trying to breathe and wishing she could loosen her corset. Then she stood, waiting patiently for the dizzying rush to subside, and made her way back to the nave. She moved stiffly, like an old woman.
Solomon and the rector were nowhere in sight. She looked up at the windows that fronted the church. On the left was St. Margaret, stepping whole from inside a dragon—and if anyone believed a woman could do that, perhaps Serena could interest them in purchasing London Bridge. A woman could do exactly what men allowed her to do and no more.
Of course, God was a man. Perhaps it had pleased Him to let Margaret live to fight her dragon. But one day He might change His mind, and what then? Serena had escaped her dragon, too, and now first her father and then René waved their hands, and she could feel its throat tight around her and its teeth at her neck as if the intervening years had been a dream.
The organist played a complex harmony, and Serena glanced at him for a moment, impressed in spite of herself. She blinked, then looked again. It was Solomon.
All Serena could see was the back of his blond head, but she was sure. The rector stood at his elbow, nodding along to the music. She walked slowly down the nave, the music rising and falling around her, and thought about snapping all the panels of her charming little fan, one by one. She would have done it if it weren’t Sophy’s.
Step by careful step, she climbed the carved wooden stairs to the organ loft. Solomon came into view, his stained fingers moving over the keys, masterful and sure and tender like—like they would move over her body. He looked confident and happy. He made a few adjustments to the knobs, and it sounded as if a flute began to play.
The rector saw her coming. “Why, there you are, Miss Jeeves!”
Solomon’s head snapped around to look at her. His playing faltered; he looked like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Somehow that smote Serena nearly as hard as those few lines in the St. Andrew of the Cross register. Was she such an ogre?
He sprang to his feet, knocking the little bench backward with a clatter. “Miss Jeeves! You look—you look ill. Would you like me to escort you home?”
She didn’t know what she would like, just that she didn’t want to go home yet.
“Your fiancé is truly talented,” the rector enthused. “You must be very proud.”
“I am,” Serena said softly. Solomon flushed and looked away, frowning in annoyance. Of course he thought she was shamming. She felt, if possible, worse. She wanted—suddenly she knew what she wanted.
“Play something for me.” She sat down on the floor of the dusty organ loft, hugging her knees and leaning her head against the wooden paneling. From here she couldn’t see over the wooden railing of the balcony. It made her feel small and invisible, and therefore safe.
Solomon sat. He laid his hand on her head for a brief moment, and then began playing something simple and elegiac that Serena soon recognized as “Angels We Have Heard on High.”
Leaning against the vibrating wood, she felt the notes thrum through her and rise to fill the grimy arched ceiling that was all she could still see of the church. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, dust tickling the back of her throat. The music shifted, soaring triumphantly. A tear slipped down her cheek; she hurriedly brushed it away.
Solomon squinted against the sunlight, stealing a glance at Serena as they stepped out of the church. When he had turned and seen her in the organ loft, she had looked positively woebegone, all the fight gone out of her for