“Ignorance is a poor excuse for bliss,” Søren said, looking pointedly at her. “Tell me what happened.”

Nora turned her head and looked into Kingsley’s dark brown eyes. They stared at each other for a long quiet moment. She’d never told Kingsley what had happened when she’d left Søren. And Kingsley had never told her. In her more honest moments she’d admit she was curious what Kingsley did in that time and why he’d left when she had.

“That sounded like an order,” Nora said to Kingsley.

“It was,” Kingsley said, as accustomed to following Søren’s orders now as she.

“Who starts?” she asked him.

“You left first,” Kingsley said to Nora. The playfulness had left his demeanor. She saw the dark light of secrets in his eyes.

“You left after me, though. Why?”

“You don’t know?” Kingsley said.

“No. I was afraid to ask,” Nora confessed. “I thought...I thought all kinds of things that year. I think I went a little crazy for a while. But I guess you would too if you were trapped in a convent surrounded by nuns with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.”

“And a nun in your bed,” Kingsley reminded her.

“And yes, there was a nun in my bed,” Nora said with a sigh.

“This is my favorite story already,” Kingsley said. “Go on.”

Nora took a breath, got comfortable with the sheets and pillow.

“Well...” she began. “It was a dark and stormy night...”

“Eleanor,” Søren said.

“It was,” she said. “I’m not making that up. That night we fought, it was dark and stormy, remember?”

Søren nodded. “I remember. Go on.”

Nora closed her eyes, let herself drift back to that night, that terrible night and that year, that dark and stormy year.

She was twenty-six years old.

Søren had just returned home from Rome.

And she was in the worst pain of her life.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Nora began again, opening her eyes to look at Søren. He returned her gaze with placid, waiting curiosity. “And I was leaving you. Forever.”

2

2003

New York City

THIS IS NOT a drill.

This is not a drill.

Elle repeated those words in her mind as she wove between the dawn-weary commuters at Penn Station.

This is not a drill.

She wanted to walk faster, but she couldn’t. Pausing by a trash can, she held the wire rim of it with both hands and breathed through her nose. A cramp twisted in her stomach and nausea hit her like a bus. The sickness passed quickly. Five hours since she last threw up. Her nausea ebbed. Her panic crested.

This is not a drill.

Standing up straight she strode forward again, tucking a loose strand of black hair under the Mets cap she’d bought at a gift shop. She didn’t watch baseball often, although Griffin had taken her to a few games this season. He would never have forgiven her if she’d bought a Yankees hat. Then again, she would probably never see him again so what did it matter?

But still, it mattered.

Every few steps, temptation whispered to her, telling her to turn around, look around... She wasn’t paranoid. But what was it Joseph Heller had said? It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you? By now Kingsley had surely sent the troops out looking for her, and this was the first place they’d look. It might have been a mistake coming here. This had been the plan though, the only plan she had.

This is not a drill.

Twice a year, every year, Kingsley had run her through the drill.

“There are five possible scenarios that would force you to run,” Kingsley had warned her each time they’d run through the drill. “I want you to be ready.”

The first time she’d been twenty years old. She and Søren had been lovers for only a few months. That was reason number one for the drill, scenario number one.

“He’s a priest, chérie, and you’re his lover now. You get caught in bed with him, and your world will explode. If that happens, the best thing you can do for him is run,” Kingsley had said, his tone solemn and sober. He meant it.

“I’m not running away from Søren,” she’d said. “Not now. Not ever. Especially not when he needs me the most.”

“Your willingness to martyr yourself will only make things worse. Journalists are sharks, and the last thing we need is a feeding frenzy. This isn’t an option, Elle. This is an order. From him and from me. Scenario number one—if you and le prêtre get caught, you run.”

An order was an order. Søren had told her to do whatever Kingsley told her to do. Everything within her had rebelled at the idea of running away if and when she and Søren were caught, but she belonged to him—she’d sworn to obey him. Because of that vow, her decisions were not hers to make. Søren had decreed it—if the outside world found out about them, she would leave town. Immediately.

But that’s not why she was here now hiding her hair under a baseball cap and walking as fast as the pain and the nausea would allow.

Scenario number two scared her more than the possibility of scenario number one.

“I know dangerous people, Elle, and they might kill me someday. They might take me captive. It’s happened before,” Kingsley had said, and she recalled the scars on his body, his chest and his wrists. “You two are the most important people in the world to me and that means they’ll come after you two if they want to hurt me. If something happens to me, if anything happens to me, you go. You and Søren both. Together. Apart. I don’t care. You go.”