"I don't know." She smiled at him. "But I do think I would have succumbed to self-pity much sooner if you hadn't been with me every step of the way. Making sure I didn't fall into too bad of trouble. I would have been robbed, or taken for a ride all around the Germany, or ended up in a Turkish harem. I do thank you for that."

He looked at her then, his lazy half smile taking on a look of reluctant honesty.

"Actually," he said, his voice barely more than a gruff whisper, "I think you would have managed fine without me. I don't know how, but . . . you would have found your way."

Winn felt the tears sting at her eyes. She did her best to blink them back, but . . .

"Oh for God's sake, what did I do now?" Jason asked, worriedly coming off the desk . . . as if tears from a woman were an indicator of disease. Luckily, his reaction had her laughing.

"No, no . . . nothing terrible." She giggled back her tears. "That is simply the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Oh," Jason replied, relievedly settling back down against the table. "Well, it's true. You would have been fine, Winn. Not that I've minded coming along with you, of course."

She threw her head back in laughter at that one. "Oh, you minded. You minded several times in several different ways."

Jason sputtered in protest, before he finally shook his head in acknowledgement. "Yes, all right . . . I did mind. Some. Not all."

"Not all?" she asked, looking into his face, and finding it raw and honest.

"I want you to know-this is the best adventure I've ever had," he breathed.

"It's the only adventure I've ever had," she replied.

They held still there, the dust from all of their efforts settling around them, the golden sun casting him a reddish halo that threatened to unsettle her as much as this conversation. But as unsettling as it was . . . she was loath to have this moment end.

"I want you to know something else," he said, and her breath caught. What did he need her to know? She had no idea. What if . . . what if it was something she couldn't bear to hear?

"I have forty-eight stable workers in my employ, at four different estates. That number fluctuates by five or so as I have local boys hired on when I visit my hunting box." He grinned. "I also tend to vote for conservative fiscal measures in the House of Lords, but strangely turn Tory when it comes to social matters. Drives my secretaries and fellow Whig party members absolutely mad. And I know the salary of my valet, and I know that I am going to have to have the fields of Crow Castle-that's my family seat-dredged within the year else the crops will suffer."

Winn's jaw dropped; she could only gape.

"Stop looking at me like a fish," Jason mumbled, blushing.

"Forty-eight stable workers?" she finally asked.

"Give or take five," he replied.

"But we spoke of that ages ago."

He shrugged. "It's been bothering me."

She let out a great breath. It was relief, she told herself, this feeling in her belly, that Jason's confession had been one of responsibility rather than . . . anything else.

But, not willing to reflect any longer, Winn wiped her eyes, squared her shoulders, and came off the edge of the desk.

"Shall we find the others?" she asked with a smile as Jason followed her lead. She took his arm, and they stepped out of the office and into the hall. "Tomorrow is another day of scouting churches. For I have to find some evidence of Maria F., because I will not be returning to England as George Bambridge's bride."

She continued to walk, but Jason became still. He caught her hand, forcing her to stop and turn around in the tiny hallway of the convent dormitory.

"There's a third option," he said seriously.

"What?" she asked.

"Other than finding Maria F. or marrying Bambridge. Winn-there is a third option."

And then . . . panic rose in her chest. Her hand remained firmly in his, and she fought to keep it there . . . to not pull away and run . . .

"There is no third option, Jason," she said, her voice weaker than she would have liked.

"Yes, there is," he countered. "I know you think you owe him a debt of honor, but if you were already mar-"

"No, Jason, there is no third option," she repeated, forcefully this time, with conviction. "Because there is no second option." She pulled her hand out of his grasp and watched his face go from open and hopeful to hard, aristocratic lines. "I will not marry George because I will not fail at this," she said. "I cannot. I have to find my evidence-the life I want is within my grasp."

"The life you want is a good one, but there are other lives to be had," he argued. "Why are you so afraid?"

"I'm not afraid!" she practically yelled. Then, more calmly, "But you cannot save me from this, Jason. I've told you that I have to have my voice, my independence . . . I will not be forced to rely on anyone or have anyone need me, ever again. It's all I've ever wanted. And if I . . . give up, I will hate myself forever. And anyone that asked me to." She looked down at her toes then, unable to hold his eye any longer as her answer to his unasked question made impact upon his features. "Please tell me you understand," she whispered.

When Jason's voice finally came, it came out harshly. "I do," he said. "So this is your choice, then?"

She flicked her gaze up at him, uncertain. He was pale, awed, refusing to look at her directly. Instead, he focused beyond her, down the short corridor.

"I will work my way through all the convents and monasteries in Vienna, in Europe, if I have to, to earn my own life," she vowed.

He nodded, and took in a deep ragged breath. "Then turn around."

Turn around? She blinked in confusion. His eyes fell to hers quickly, and he nodded, his face still giving nothing away. So she turned at his command and followed his line of sight to the end of the short corridor, where it turned to the left. In the corner of the hall was the small prayer altar, set with votive candles that Mr. Ellis had nearly tripped over. Or perhaps he had nearly tripped over one of the few chairs that were situated next to it. But that was not what had caught Jason's attention-and now hers.

On top of the prayer altar was a small triptych painting, set in thick pine, so it stood up of its own volition. The center panel rose in an arch and was no more than a foot and a half tall, a foot wide. Its two side panels were set on hinges, and each were half of the center panel's width, so they could be closed like church doors.

And while the center panel featured a Renaissance-era depiction of Jesus on the cross, the two side panels were far more interesting. There was one of Adam and one of Eve, with the Tree of Knowledge divided between the two.

And they were exact copies of the Adam and Eve from the disputed painting. Down to the snake winding around Adam's ankle.

"Oh my God," she breathed, taking measured steps toward the altar-she did not fully trust her legs now. She reached the triptych-were her eyes playing tricks on her? No . . . no, they were correct. Completely and utterly correct.

". . . the First of Man and Woman. That's what Maria F. called the painting in her letters," Winn intoned, her breath coming in little hitches. "But it wasn't a title . . . it was a first draft! This must be her finished work!" Her eyes focused unblinkingly on a lower corner.

"It's . . . oh my God. Jason . . . oh my God, is that, is that a signature?"

She peered closely, and then gingerly, ever so gingerly, lifted it up and used a votive candle's light to peer at the bottom right corner of the main panel.

"Well, it's certainly not Durer's mark," Jason commented, his nose as close to canvas as her own.

"This is it, Jason," she replied, standing upright but still clutching the triptych. "This, plus the letters? This is incontrovertible proof. And to think, it's been sitting in this little abbey in Dobling for the past three hundred years. Forgotten." She looked up at him with shining eyes. "And you found it. Jason-you made the discovery of a lifetime."

He opened his mouth to answer, to say something . . . anything . . . about the discovery, about what she told him mere seconds before it . . . but it was not to be.

Because someone else answered for him.

"The discovery of a lifetime, Your Grace?" George Bambridge's voice came out of the shadows from down the left corridor. "My congratulations. A pity your life is going to be far too short."

Twenty-five.

Wherein the dramatics conclude.

GEORGE emerged from the darkness of the long corridor, lead by the shine of a pistol in his hand.

"Good heavens, George, where did you get that?" Winn asked, surprised a little at her own tone.

"Linz," George replied conversationally. Then, with his spare hand, he dug into his pocket. "You left something there, Your Grace." He held up the ducal signet ring, its gold crest sparkling in the low light. Tossed it to Jason, who caught it and slipped it back onto his finger.

"My thanks, Bambridge," Jason said, his tone far more wary than Winn's had been. Slowly, Jason shuffled himself so that his body stood in front of Winn, protecting her.

"Ah, ah, ah," George said, seeing Jason's intentions. "That's quite far enough, Your Grace."

"Now, George, be reasonable. We have just had a moment of true academic discovery. This is important," Winn began.

"No! You do not order me about any longer. Your independence was fostered by your father and should never have been encouraged. You women, trying to tell me what is important and what is good," George spat, advancing toward them. "I'm tired of it. Now, you're going to listen to me."

It was at that point that Winn realized two things: First of all, it was eerily quiet in the convent dormitory. There was no one there but them. Where was Totty? Where were the sisters, the novitiate who had come to check on them periodically throughout the day? Where was Mr. Ellis? The silence told her that there was no one coming to save them.

The second thing she realized, as the first was sending a chill down her spine, was that George Bambridge had, over the last few weeks, gone past the point of reason.

Although, in fairness, the last was a point she should have realized as soon as she saw the pistol in his hand.

It was obviously a point that Jason had taken note of, as he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "All right Bambridge, you win." Gently, he took the triptych out of Winn's hands, closing the side panels over the main one so only the wooden sides faced out. Its hinges, obviously long held in the same position, creaked with the effort of use, shaking Winn to the core.

"This is what you want, correct? This is the proof that Winn was right all along. Take it." Jason held out the triptych to George, at arm's length. George glanced down at it, uncertain. Then, stepping carefully, he approached. He reached out his left hand, and in so doing, the pistol in his right fell by an inch.

That's when Jason tossed the triptych in the air. And suddenly, everything happened at once.

George reached for the triptych, dropping his pistol to the ground, luckily without discharge. But before the triptych even touched George's outstretched fingers, Jason had launched himself at George, tackling him. As George hit the ground, so did the painting, and Winn's strangled cry rent the air. She was about to dive for it, but as George and Jason wrestled on the floor, George's leg kicked out and knocked over the small altar of votive candles.

That was when things got truly interesting.

The altar itself was old, and little more than tinder. It went up quickly, with Winn on one side, and Jason, George, and the triptych on the other.

For one of the few times in her life, Winn did not know what to do.

"Jason!" she cried as George rolled on top of him and began pummeling his ribs.

"Go! Get help!" Jason said in strangled tones.

"I'm not leaving you!" she cried. Oh heavens, the fire was spreading to the chair. How long before the ceiling beams caught?

"Oh for God's sake . . ." Jason grumbled, and then, with a lucky kick to George's male parts, managed to turn the tables and get the advantage. He stood quickly and picked up the triptych, tossing it over the fire, startling Winn into reaching out her hands and catching it.

"Go get help!"

"Jase-"

"The fire is spreading. Go now!"

She ran. Winn ran down the corridor, out into the orange gaze of the setting sun. She looked around wildly, but could see no one. "Help!" she yelled, again and again. But no one came. All the sisters and students must be in the school, for prayers before supper, as the church was still being repaired.

The church. It was the closest.

"Mr. Ellis!" she cried, taking off for the doors to the little chapel that served as the convent's place of worship. It was a perfectly serviceable place, with rows of wooden pews on either side of a main aisle, leading up to an altar. It would not have stood out of place from any other church, except for the scaffolding and lack of roof. She burst through the doors, setting some nesting pigeons into flight, the flap of their wings echoing across the empty space. "Mr. Ellis! Mr. Ellis!" she called again, and thankfully, finally, Mr. Ellis appeared at the little podium at the altar.

"Oh thank goodness . . . Mr. Ellis, take this." Winn practically tossed the triptych at him. "It's terribly important. And you have to go get help, there's a fire in the dormitory!"

"What on earth, child . . . ?" Mr. Ellis said, his eyes running over the triptych in his hands.

"Mr. Ellis. Fire! Dormitory!"

That was all that needed to be said. Using the door on the side, he took the triptych and ran out to the school.

Winn headed back up the aisle to the main doors, the ones she had come through, that lead back to the dormitory. She had to get to Jason . . . She had to get him out . . .

And then she heard it.

The birds that had settled back into their nests, rustling, the beginnings of flight.

She dove down in between pews just as the main doors burst open, and George roared into the little church.

She held as still as she could, barely breathing, wedged between the kneeling stools and the seats. She was on her hands and knees, as low and she could get. Watching the aisle . . . listening to footsteps.

"Winnifred . . . come out now, I know you're in here. I must say you chose your champion poorly. You missed it when I knocked him down in two blows to the head." Footsteps crept closer.

"Funny, isn't it? I never liked boxing." He laughed then, a hollow, wild sound that Winn had never heard before. It sent pricks of fear to her scalp. "I seem to have a talent for it."

She couldn't hide here forever. He would find her, catch her . . . She shuffled as far back in the row as she could, as quietly as possible, sliding on her knees. But alas, she wasn't silent enough.

"There you are." George appeared at her row, leaning casually on the pew. He was a mess-she hadn't noticed it before, her focus had been mainly on the pistol (that he luckily no longer carried), but his coat was worn, his face scruffed with beard. His shirt and trousers were smattered with ashes. Normally, George was finicky about his appearance, to the point of irritation. But now, his gaze and his voice were utterly, disturbingly calm.

"Might as well stand, you know," George drawled, his voice becoming harder and harder with every word he enunciated. "Are you going to make me come get you? Make me chase you more? I've been chasing you for fifteen years. One would think that's enough."

It was his anger that kept his eyes calm, Winn realized. His anger that he normally stomped out had now been ingested, and permeated his very soul. She didn't have to glance behind her to know that there was no means of easy escape. There was very little choice but to stand and meet him.

"Where is Jason?" she asked.

"Where I left him."