Thankfully, Camilla didn’t encounter him the next morning. She made plans—good plans, sober plans—to maintain a reasonable distance with no swearing or flirting or talk of shambling corpses at all.

Still, she felt sore and raw all day. That haunting feeling of loneliness from last night had not abandoned her; she was more aware than ever that her heart ached.

Maybe it was because she’d spent all yesterday tearing up and down stairs, carrying sheets and polishing silver until her arms ached. Maybe it was because of the way Mr. Hunter had looked at her the prior evening—with pity, as if he could see through Camilla’s attempts to be good, and knew how little chance she had of succeeding.

For whatever reason, she felt particularly low when she slunk into the rector’s study that afternoon with the tea things.

“There are rumors that Shoreham is stepping down,” the bishop was saying, “and you’ve positioned yourself perfectly to…”

The conversation stopped as the plates on her tray clinked, drawing the men’s attention. They looked up at her as if irritated at the intrusion.

Camilla bowed her head and laid everything in place as quickly and silently as possible—toast points, tea, milk, sugar, lemon tarts. Her fingers lingered a second on the dish of tarts. She had loved lemon tarts once. No. She wasn’t going to look back at a time when she’d had them regularly herself. She didn’t think she could eat one any longer.

“Miss Winters,” said the bishop.

Camilla jumped, yanking her hand away. “My apologies, my most abject apologies.”

One moment. One moment, one little lapse of judgment, and there she was—straying into dangerous territory. Dreaming. Remembering.

His frown deepened at this. “What are you apologizing for?”

“For—taking so long?”

He blinked. “Well. Don’t do that, then. I’ve been told that you are not, in fact, Miss Camilla Winters.”

Camilla swallowed.

“That your name is Miss Camilla Worth.”

It was, to be technical, Lady Camilla Worth, but after all that had happened to her, insisting on her title would do more harm than good. She couldn’t get above herself. She didn’t dare reveal the truth. She didn’t answer this query with anything more than a nod. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest.

“That’s an interesting family name.”

She would not say a word.

“It’s the family name of the late Earl of Linney,” he said, examining his fingernails. “The one who was executed for treason a handful of years ago.”

Nine years ago, it had been. Camilla tried not to think of the date, but she remembered it too perfectly. Almost half of Camilla’s life—if that barely remembered past really belonged to her. Her father was dead and a traitor; her brother was dead and transported. Next to them, Camilla’s sins were merely banal.

Camilla knew she should hate her father for what he had done—to her, to her family, to the country. But the very thought of him—her brothers, her sisters—opened up that cavern of loneliness in her heart. She’d never been good at hating anyone.

No. Don’t look back.

“Is that right?” She glanced at the rector who was watching her. “How very unfortunate that I should share a family name with them, then.”

“So there’s no relation?”

“I would hardly be setting out tea things if my father were an earl.” Camilla ducked her head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“So you don’t know Lady Judith Worth.”

Judith. A separate wash of forlorn desolation hit Camilla. Once, when she had been younger and even more stupid, her uncle had offered to take her in. Her and Judith and Benedict—and not their younger sister Theresa. She could scarcely recall why any longer—something about Theresa being difficult.

Camilla had said yes to the offer. He’d said she could have gowns, lemon tarts, and a come out, after all. Judith, her eldest sister, had tried to argue.

He doesn’t love us, her sister had told her.

I won’t starve, Camilla had responded, stupid at twelve.

It seemed a fitting punishment for Camilla, that she’d been granted none of her wishes—not the gowns nor the come out nor the lemon tarts. She’d spent every year since yearning more and more desperately for the love she’d dismissed out of hand.

She’d chosen to live without it; still, somehow, the demons on her shoulder whispered that she might still have it. Someday.

“Ah,” the bishop said. “You do know her.”

Camilla hadn’t seen Judith once in the years since—Judith had made it clear she was unwelcome.

Camilla shook her head and spoke through the lump in her throat. “I don’t. How would I know the Marchioness of Ashford?”

A pause. She could feel her longing, an almost tangible presence in her chest.

She’d heard the news about Judith’s marriage shortly after Rector Miles had taken her in. He was the one who had impressed on her the seriousness of her misbehavior. He had told her that she should not long to be loved so, that it would drive her to destruction. He’d told her that she hadn’t earned the right to such care, that the impulse that welled up inside her insisting that she might one day belong somewhere was the devil trying to seduce her.

Judith was married to a marquess, of all things. It was what Camilla had dreamed about when she’d abandoned her family. Rector Miles was right; Camilla didn’t deserve what Judith had. Still, she could not stop herself from dreaming.

The bishop was watching her with a troubled air. “You seem to know her well enough to know of her wedding. Interesting, for someone who claims not to be related.”

Camilla exhaled. “Well. Who doesn’t follow the nobility? Particularly when one family—entirely coincidentally—shares one’s name.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t sound as if he believed her. Rector Miles must have disclosed something of Camilla’s past if he knew her abandoned last name.

She hated admitting the truth. She hated even thinking it. “It really is the best that I’m no relation, don’t you think?”

“Is it?”

“Well—what you’ve described. The treason.” She swallowed. “Judith—I mean, Lady Judith’s new marriage. The family’s position in society must be terribly precarious.” She could hear her own voice shaking as she spoke. She pressed her hands into her skirts to stop them trembling.

“Is that so?”

She felt speared by his eyes. “There was talk after the father and the brother had that incident, you know. People said the family was nothing but bad blood.”

He examined his fingernails. “You do know quite a bit about them.”

“If people thought someone like me was related to the likes of them?” Her whole being ached, just thinking of what it would mean. “I imagine it would ruin whatever progress they’ve managed to achieve in society.”

“Someone like you. What are you, then?”

What are you. Not who. He looked at her like a thing, and under his gaze she felt like one.

The rector had made her say it—once—when she arrived here. She knew she was flawed to her core; she didn’t want to have to say it again.

“Nobody,” she whispered. “I’m nobody.”

The rector must have told Bishop Lassiter the truth, for him to subject her to this interrogation. He must have told him how he found her eighteen months ago.

Kissing a footman she had no business kissing.

Miles had impressed on her the consequences of her conduct—rumor is, your younger brother is going to Eton now. Maybe the family name can be rehabilitated. Maybe…

Maybe would be never, if the truth about Camilla ever came out.

“That whole business has nothing to do with you, then?”

“No.” She whispered the word hoarsely. “Nothing.”

“Camilla,” said the rector, “I’m filling out my logbook for yesterday. Do you remember who I discussed?”

The relief she felt at the change of subject was immense, a weight lifting from her shoulders. She liked being helpful; she had an excellent memory, and she’d often assisted him by providing names. “In the morning, before the bishop arrived? Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Miss Jones. Mrs. Landry. After the bishop, I wasn’t about.”

“Very well.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Wait—I do recall one name. Mrs. Martin—you discussed her while I was setting out the tea things.”

He didn’t smile at her. “That’s very helpful. You should endeavor to be helpful, Camilla. That’s the only way you’ll make progress.”

Even that tiny amount of guarded praise had her glowing. In the years since she’d left her sister, she’d had little enough praise. Deservedly so. Camilla had that chorus of devils on her shoulder and no matter how she sometimes felt about the rector, he’d made sure that any rumors of her would not harm her family. She had to remember that.

“That will be all, Camilla.”

She escaped, feeling scraped raw.

Judas, it was said, betrayed Christ for thirty silver pieces. Camilla had sold her family for lemon tarts. It seemed fitting that she had nothing.

In a parable or a Greek myth, she would have been doomed to yearn for love hopelessly, forever. But this wasn’t a parable or a myth, and that legion of devils on her shoulder still gave her more hope than her single angel.

It’s been bad, they whispered, but just hold on. Don’t look back; look forward, and it will all come out right. Any day now. Just hold on to your hope.

The rector had told her not to listen to that hope. It sounded sweet, he told her, but it would lead her astray. Foolishness, said her angel, but its voice was small in comparison.

One day, said those devils. It will all be better one day.

Camilla took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and tried not to believe her devils. As always, she failed.

“Camilla!” The call came from below stairs. Camilla jumped. “Camilla? Where are you?”

She came back to herself again, and locked her bitter loneliness away. She tied it up with hope in the center of her heart. With any luck, it wouldn’t escape again, not for a good long while.