The ship groaned like a woman in travail. She had not been able to imagine the noise, the creaking and moaning and the scream of the wind. Sure that she would never be able to close her eyes, Jennet fell into a deep and satisfied sleep.

At ten o'clock, so nervous that her hands shook, Jennet found her way to the cabin just below her own. At her knock a cabin boy opened the door and jumped at the sight of her, coloring from the first pale hairs that peeked out from under his cap to the tight circle of the scarf knotted around his neck.

“Pardon, my lady.” He ducked his head and shoulders, and slipped past her into the gloom of the passageway.

“Jamie,” Jennet called after him and it seemed to her that for one moment he might pretend not to hear her. Then he turned.

“Aye, my lady?”

“It's nae sin tae smile, lad.”

He bobbed his head again and ran off as if she had declared her intention to shoot him.

“Such a shy boy.” Madame del Giglio's voice drifted to Jennet from the far corner of the stateroom, where she sat at a small table in an isle of morning sunlight. Against the backdrop of damask drapery the color of port wine she looked like a painting. One hand was spread flat on the table in front of her. With the other hand she was stroking Pip, who sat up at attention and wagged his fringed tail.

“Jamie comes from Carryckton.” Jennet closed the door behind herself. “Where my brother is laird. And he's very young, no more than ten.”

“And why should he be afraid to speak to me, then?”

The merchant's wife gestured to a chair opposite herself, and Jennet took it.

“I can think of two reasons,” she said. “The simplest is just that the boy has no English and he's been forbidden to speak Scots to passengers.”

“But you spoke Scots to him.” Camille del Giglio had the darkest eyes Jennet had ever seen in a white woman; she found it hard to look away.

“Aye,” Jennet said. “It is my mother tongue and the one I am most comfortable speaking, madame. When I was Jamie's age, I swore I'd never speak English.”

“A vow you could not keep.”

Jennet inclined her head. “In those days I never thought to live anywhere else. I could not have imagined leaving Annandale, much less Scotland.”

“And now you cannot imagine going back again.”

Jennet flushed with surprise and a fluttering of something she must call panic.

“Do you divine the future, madame?”

“No,” said the merchant's wife. “But I have eyes in my head, and I have raised three daughters. You are very much like one of them, the eldest.”

Sunlight rocked on the wall where Carryck's coat of arms hung: a white elk, a lion, a shield and crown. In tenebris lux: light in the darkness. Jennet swallowed and forced herself to look away.

“You were telling me about Jamie,” the lady prompted.

Jennet said, “His mother and I were good friends when we were little. We disgraced ourselves by smuggling ginger nuts into kirk on a Sunday, and that was the least of it. To speak English with Jamie MacDuff would be as unnatural as addressing him in Greek. Or you in Scots, madame.”

The lady smiled at that, her odd one-sided smile that made it seem as though she were at war with herself.

“And the second reason?”

Jennet folded her hands in her lap. “Why, he's afraid. He's never seen anyone quite like you.”

Madame del Giglio murmured a word to Pip, who left her lap with a bounce and settled himself at her feet. In that same moment she produced a deck of cards—it seemed to Jennet out of thin air—and began to lay them out on the gleaming tabletop. In her surprise Jennet said nothing at all, but only watched.

“Do you play at cards?”

“A little,” said Jennet, and felt the lady's evaluating gaze.

“Very good,” she said finally.

“Madame?”

“You are either modest, or you have learned to keep your own council. Both are to be commended.”

“The cards we play with look nothing like yours,” Jennet said, and the lady laughed.

“And you know something of the art of misdirection. Excellent.” Her hands stilled for a moment and then began to shift cards once more. They were worn at the edges and soft with handling; the figures were block printed, almost crude in execution, and the colors faded. She dealt three.

“This was my mother's deck,” said Madame del Giglio. “And her mother's before her.” She was quiet as she studied the cards she had laid out in a line, and then she touched them, one after the other, with a light finger.

“The two of cups, the star, the hanged man.” She raised her face and gave Jennet her odd half-smile. “When I first saw you coming on board I suspected as much.”

“A hanged man?” Jennet leaned forward to study the figure, who seemed so unconcerned about his fate that he had crossed one leg over the other. “Can that be a good card?”

Madame tapped the figure. “Very good indeed. This card promises an awakening.”

“Awakening,” Jennet echoed. She wondered at herself, that she should be so calm. A strange woman sat before her divining the future from cards. What she should do—what she was taught to do—was to walk away from such godlessness and spend the rest of the day on her knees saying a rosary for the lady's endangered soul.

And even as these thoughts went through her head Jennet saw that they were no secret from Madame del Giglio, who was waiting patiently for curiosity to win out over doctrine.