She had thought herself prepared, Sebille having told she sent word to her brother days past. Though she assured Honore she had not revealed the reason for the summons, the man who awaited his sister in the largest of Bairnwood’s guest rooms did not look questioningly at the second woman who entered and halted in his shadow. It was almost as if he expected her.

Sebille closed the door, crossed the room, and embraced her brother.

He returned the affection, causing Honore to hope one day he would be fond enough of her to grant a brotherly embrace.

“I am pleased to see you,” Sebille said when he released her.

“As I am to see you, Sister Sebille.” He reached to the purse on his belt, opened it, and removed a strand of beads. “I am certain you have missed these.”

“So I have.”

Honore frowned. To keep from thinking on Elias’s words forever lost to her, she had so immersed herself in her work she had not noted Sebille’s beads were missing. For what had she sent them to her brother?

The woman turned back. “This is Honore, Lothaire.”

He inclined his head, causing the sparse light come through the one window whose shutters had been set back to sweep blond hair caught close at the nape.

Of a similar shade to her own, Honore noted. And the face Elias had her look upon in the mirror bore a strong, albeit feminine, resemblance to this man’s.

“I am pleased to meet you, Honore, though there is another—”

“Hold,” Sebille said as he started to turn. “I am grateful you so quickly answered my summons, but ere we speak of the reason, there is something you must know.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Sebille drew her sister forward and met resistance. “Come,” she entreated. “I vow he does not bite.”

Reluctantly, Honore yielded and halted before the man whose height well exceeded hers and Sebille’s.

She knew when the eyes roving her face noted her scarred lip and saw there a question that seemed more disbelief than curiosity.

“Oui,” Sebille said, “she lived. And as I was given her name when our father exchanged us, she was given mine.”

He drew a sharp breath, and his eyes lowered to the beads around Honore’s neck.

“You see it,” Sebille said. “All these years she had the other half of that which the abbess gifted me ere your mother came to return me to Lexeter.” At his silence, she prompted. “Have you naught to say?”

He swallowed. “It is…difficult to believe I have two sisters.”

A sound—or was it a stirring of air?—moved Honore’s gaze to the right of Baron Soames. The far corner alongside the bed was painted with shadows in various shades of dark. Was it a tall chair there?

Gently, Sebille squeezed Honore’s arm. “It is only recently revealed and verified by the abbess, but methinks Honore does not yet believe she is no longer alone in the world—that she has a sister and brother, that I am the misbegotten one and she is noble both sides.”

Not a chair, Honore determined. A presence, as of one capable of breath.

Sebille gripped her arm tighter as if to keep Honore from venturing where her gaze had gone. “Near a miracle, is it not, Lothaire?”

“It is.” Out of the corner of her eye seeing him reach to her, Honore returned her regard to him, startled when his hand cupped her jaw. “Did our father know you lived, Honore?”

“He knew,” Sebille answered for her. “It was he who sent the physician to repair her lip, he who provided funds should she wish to take vows.”

“But you did not,” he said.

Honore started to shake her head, but he did not ask for confirmation. True, her gown was a different color from Sebille’s, but the style was the same and the hair veils identical, and oft she was mistaken for a sister by visitors not of the Church. Was she wrong in believing though he had not known she was his sister he had knowledge of Honore of Bairnwood before his arrival?

Eyes once more drawn to the corner, Honore said, “My work is with foundlings.”

“So it is.”

Again, no questioning. Do I only imagine Elias here? she wondered. Or has this sister who believes a future for us possible aided him in entering Bairnwood?

She moistened her lips. “Who is here with you, Baron Soames?”

He dropped his hand from her. “One whose presence was meant to be revealed sooner.”

The shadows shifted and Elias stepped into the light. Whole, no evidence of death crouching near as when last she had seen him.

Though she rejoiced at further proof the Lord had answered her prayers, it hurt terribly to be so near him again.

He halted alongside her found brother, said, “You gave me no choice, Honore.”

His voice tempted her into arms she sensed would open to her. And make what was hard to let loose almost impossible.

“You should not have come,” she said and looked to Sebille. “You had no right.”

Her sister’s eyes moistened. “I could not stand you forsaking love the same as I.”

“I do not forsake love. My place is at Bairnwood with those I do love.”

“Are you saying you do not love me?” Elias asked.

She raised her chin higher. “I am not without feelings for you, but they do not compare to what I feel for others.” It was true, though not as she would have him believe. “I am very glad you are recovered from the injuries for which I am responsible, but now I would have you go with all haste lest you fall into King Henry’s hands.”

He took a step nearer, and she had to fight the impulse to retreat born of fear the opposite impulse would see her in his arms. “Ere I journeyed to Bairnwood,” he said, “I was with King Henry at Marlborough. Your missive sent ahead by my sire and the audience Henry granted has seen all set aright.” His mouth curved slightly. “We made our peace. The De Morville lands are safe.”

Such relief swept her she nearly sought a hand hold. “I am pleased. It is said our king is much aggrieved by his break with the archbishop.”

“He is.” Elias looked to the other two. “I would speak with Honore alone.”

She had nearly forgotten them. “There is naught else we must discuss, Sir Elias. Methinks it best you return to France forthwith.”

“Did the abbess give you my missive?”

She tensed. “She did.”

He looked disappointed, as if hoping its absence explained her rejection. “And?”

She raised her eyebrows, gave back, “And?”

“Knowing how much I feel for you, that is all you can say?”

She did not know how much he felt for her—at least by way of the missive. That he was here told he felt enough he would not keep his word to his father and would be ruined if she did not keep her word. Then when Otto De Morville passed, his people and lands would suffer for lack of one worthy to rule.

“That is all,” she said.

A muscle in his jaw convulsed. “Read it again.”

Could one read ashes, she might. “I need not.”

He took another step toward her. “Read it again, Honore.”

“Impossible. I burned it.”

His eyes widened.

“It was of no use to me,” she rushed on. “A great service you rendered Hart and the little ones, and I am grateful, but that is where we end. Now if you will not go, I must.” She looked to her brother and, ignoring his weighted brow said, “Let us speak later.”

“I meant every word,” Elias said as she turned away.

The ache in his voice made her falter, but the need for breath kept one foot moving in front of the other—down the corridor and stairs, into the courtyard where still there was not enough air to breathe deep.

“Honore?”

She gasped, looked to the right at the abbess whose habit was covered by a woolen mantle now autumn had lost its battle to hold back winter. Honore’s bones were not so old she had taken the time to don her own covering when Sebille received word of her brother’s arrival, but now she wished she had. Of course, the chill coursing her had little to do with the cold.

“What is wrong, Child?” The abbess halted before Honore.

“I am but tired.”

The woman’s brow bunched. “As hard as you work, I am not surprised, but you look as if you might cry.” She glanced past Honore. “Were you in the guest house?”

“Oui, Sebille’s brother has come. I have made his acquaintance.”

“Was he unkind?”

“He was not. Indeed, I will be glad to know him better when I am rested.”

“Then go and lie down a while.”

“The children—”

“I will aid Jeannette.”

The two walked side by side, but as they neared the dormitory, Honore said, “First, I would go to the chapel.”

“I think that a good thing.”

Honore turned aside. Had she looked around ere entering the chapel, she would have seen the abbess turn back the way they had come.

She had so little regard for his feelings, she had set his words afire. The only sense Elias could make of it was he did not know her as believed. Just as he had not truly known Lettice.

“Fool,” he muttered. Exiting the guest house where he had left Soames with one of what had become two sisters, he stepped into the path of the elderly woman to whom he had entrusted the missive of which ashes had been made.

“Sir Elias!” She clapped a hand to her chest as if to hold her heart inside.

He should have taken more care with his departure. Doubtless, she would guess it was by way of Soames he had stolen into the abbey. “Abbess.”

Slowly, she lowered her hand, then sighed heavily. “I have been selfish.”

“Selfish?”

“You have seen Honore, have you not? And she has seen you?”

He inclined his head. “She rejected me the same as when she would not come out.”

“Not the same, Sir Elias. And it is my doing.”

“Yours? She burned my missive.”

The corners of her mouth convulsed. “The Song of Honore. So very beautiful.”

Then as warned, she had read his words before sharing them with Honore. “A pity she did not think it beautiful.”

“How could she? I—”

“She does not feel for me as I feel for her. That she could not make more clear.”

She set a gloved hand on his arm. “She knows not how true your feelings because she did not read of them.”

“What?”

“As told, I have been selfish, holding to her because I did not think I could bear for her to slip away.”

“Pray, make sense, Abbess.”

“After reading your words in private, I bound up the sheets. When I gave them to her, I reminded her of her duty to the foundlings and told her no good could come of pretty words from a man she could not have. Thus, I advised her to burn the parchment rather than read words that could burn themselves into her heart and pain her to her end days.”

Struggling to contain his anger, Elias said, “A man she could not have? You read my words. They revealed my sire gave me leave to wed as I choose, and that I choose her.”

“Selfish and sinful, as time and again I have repented since the Lord refuses to lighten my heart no matter I assure Him I did it for those He loves that Honore might save them from the dark of the world.”

The relief pouring into Elias was so great it doused much of his anger. He did know Honore. She was but unaware the impossible was possible.

“I am sorry, Sir Elias. Regardless of what she may have said, I am certain she feels much for you. And when you have remedied what I wrought, I believe she will answer as you wish.”

He drew a long breath. “You are forgiven. Now pray, point me to her.”

She looked across her shoulder. “The chapel, doubtless trying to pray away her heartache.”

“I may go to her?”

“I ought not allow it, but at this hour she is likely alone.”

He caught up her hand, kissed her wool-covered knuckles. “I thank you.”

Her aged face, framed by veil and gorget, lightened. “I can think of none more deserving of the love of a good man. Make her your own, Sir Elias.”

He pivoted and could not control strides aspiring to the reach of a run. He nearly wrenched open the chapel door, but in this he exercised control. He eased it open and, as he slipped inside, swept his eyes over the interior. The only movement was that of flickering light and shadows cast by altar candles. No evidence anyone was within. Had Honore departed?

As he strode the aisle, glancing pew to pew lest he miss her where she bent forward, he heard a soft sound as of a door closing. Might she have heard his entrance and hastened from sight?

He halted, considered whence the sound issued. Would it be sacrilegious to enter the opposite side of the booth in which confessions were received and sins absolved with only a screen separating one from their confessor?

Though Elias counseled himself to wait for her to come out, the possibility it was not Honore and she might now be further distancing herself made him go where he ought not.