I hurried after him, with the uneasy sensation that he knew very well he was being followed and was deliberately leading me on. Frost crunched under my boots; I gulped in cold air as if it were spring water, feeling my head begin to clear as I left the palace behind. The torches along the path burned low, giving out little light; I took one from its bracket and held it before me. To each side I encountered more couples barely concealed among the bushes, oblivious to the cold. In the lee of a box hedge, a woman stood with her bodice unlaced and her head thrown back, one man behind her caressing her breasts, while from beneath her skirts emerged the legs and haunches of a second, his head and torso swallowed up by her petticoats. None of them gave any acknowledgement of my presence; I turned away, adjusting myself, irritated by the old familiar ache of desire. I wanted to forget the man in the Greek mask, and instead to find Gabrielle in the velvet darkness of the woods and take some fleeting satisfaction in her embrace, like before.
As if in silent complicity, the man in the mask appeared to have melted away into the shadows while my attention was distracted; I could see no sign of him against the line of trees ahead. The woods bristled with night noises: the call of an owl, the uncanny screech of a fox – though that might just as easily have been the sound of an amorous couple, as might the scufflings and rustlings of brittle leaves underfoot that caused me to pause every few steps as I strained to listen for the sound of anyone approaching. As the trees thickened, the path dwindled until I was no longer sure I was following any marked trail at all, or perhaps I had wandered from it long before, but I pressed forward, trying to keep the torch flame away from the bare twigs, hoping I would soon stumble on the clearing Gabrielle had mentioned.
Presently, I became aware of a curious noise, one I could not recognise at first, but which sounded like the muffled whimper of a wounded animal. I slowed my steps, afraid of startling the creature, but as I listened I realised it was the sound of a woman crying. My first thought was of Gabrielle in distress; I moved as carefully as I could manage towards the sobs until I emerged unexpectedly from the trees into a small hollow. On the far side, I made out the figure of a woman sitting on a fallen trunk, bent over, a flickering lantern at her feet. At my arrival she jerked her head up, swiped a tear from her cheek with a savage gesture, and lowered her eyes again.
‘You came, then. I had almost given up. I cannot do it,’ she said, without preliminary, in a tone that dared me to argue. I almost did not recognise her, now that she was no longer wearing her mask. I opened my mouth to reply but she held up a hand to stop me. ‘No – let me speak. What you are asking of me – I cannot. Before God, I cannot. If I continue, I am damned. Surely you see that? And so are you,’ she continued, fiercely, before I could say a word, ‘for your hands will be as dirty as mine in God’s sight.’
Her voice trembled and she broke off in a gulping sob. She was turning something over and over between her hands. It glinted in the light; a coin, perhaps, or a ring. I coughed and moved a step closer.
‘Say something, then,’ she urged, ‘or is your conscience quite dead? Will you not release me?’ There was no mistaking the desperation in her voice. The best thing I could do now would be to turn and leave, rather than add to her distress. Instead I took a few steps closer.
‘Madame – I fear you have mistaken me for someone else.’ I held the torch nearer to my face so that we could see one another clearly. She peered forward and I lifted my mask on to my head. I did not know what prompted me to do so, except some desire to reassure her, she looked so vulnerable. She stifled a little scream, pressing a hand over her mouth, and I found myself looking into the wild frightened eyes of Circe.
‘I was expecting someone else too,’ I said, moving cautiously forward another pace, as you might approach a spooked horse. ‘This is a popular meeting place, it seems.’
She said nothing, only continued to stare at me as if I were an apparition from the grave. She was wrapped in a white fur-trimmed cloak. Her shaking fingers scrabbled at the object she held, keeping it in constant motion.
‘Madame, is there anything I can do to help you?’ I asked, as gently as I could. The import of her words when I first appeared, before I identified myself, was not lost on me; if I could only judge this right, she might reveal the answers I was seeking. I felt the tension I experienced when picking a lock: absolute precision was required. One tiny slip of the hand could mean the difference between the mechanism yielding or breaking beneath your fingers so that it remained shut for good. ‘If you are afraid of someone, I could wait with you—’
I took another step nearer, holding out my hand to her; the movement seemed to wake her from her shock and she scrambled to
