She struggled into a sitting position when Søren called out her name.

“I’m here,” she called back. “In the bathroom. You can come in.”

Her heart was pounding now. She hadn’t seen him in ten weeks and so much had happened. She started to stand but a wave of light-headedness hit her so she stayed on the floor. Søren opened the door and whatever pleasure had been in his eyes a split second earlier evaporated with one look at her.

“I’m sick,” she said. “Not contagious.”

She didn’t know why she’d added that part at the end about not being contagious. If she’d had leprosy, Søren still would have done what he’d done just then. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the floor behind him, came down to his knees and pulled her into his arms.

It hurt. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Being loved and held by him hurt.

“What’s wrong, Little One?” he asked in her ear. He smoothed her hair back, tucked it behind her ear, kissed her forehead. All the actions of a loving father.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Tell me anyway. It’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, trying to smile for him, but she didn’t have any smiles left in her. Not even for him. “It wasn’t yours. You should know that first.”

“What wasn’t mine?”

And it seemed as soon as he asked the question he knew the answer. Before she could speak again, explain herself, his eyes closed and he let out a breath.

“Kingsley’s.” It wasn’t a question.

“Kingsley’s,” she said. “I went to the doctor yesterday. They gave me pills.”

“You went to the doctor.” His voice was devoid of emotion. “Who did you go with?”

“Kingsley’s driver took me,” she said.

“Did Kingsley go with you?”

“You know how much he hates doctors.”

Søren didn’t say anything.

“It’ll take a few days for it to all work out,” she continued. “The nausea’s normal, the doctor said. And the cramping. I’m bleeding pretty heavy, but that’s normal, too. And...”

And she stopped talking. She’d lost her train of thought and it didn’t matter anyway. Søren’s back rested against the bathroom door, and she lay across his lap, in his arms, tired and helpless as a child.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, and then the tears came. “I’m so sorry.”

Her body shook with her tears, which set off spasms of pain in her back and stomach. But she couldn’t stop crying, not now that she was in Søren’s arms. He tried to console her, to comfort her, but it was useless. Everything hurt, inside and out. Over the sound of her own racking sobs, she heard his voice speaking to her in soft murmurs.

“I love you, Little One. Now and always. And nothing you can do will take my love away from you. I will never leave you. You’re mine now and always...”

And still she cried. She cried until sheer exhaustion silenced her sobbing.

She could have fallen asleep right there in his arms on the floor of his bathroom. She should have fallen asleep. She needed sleep. It had been twenty-four hours or more since she’d slept.

“We’ll be married,” Søren said.

Elle came instantly awake.

“What?”

“I said we will be married. You and I.”

“Married? Are you serious?”

“Of course I am.”

Married? Her and Søren? Husband and wife? It was tempting, she had to admit, if only to herself. They had never talked about getting married before, but as soon as he said the word she had a vision of it. Søren in a tuxedo. She would be in a dress—off-white, not pure white. And Kingsley would stand next to Søren, his best man. Søren’s confessor, Father Ballard, would perform the ceremony. Søren’s mother would come, of course. And his sisters, maybe even Elizabeth. They’d honeymoon in Denmark. They might move in with Kingsley when they got back to New York. Knowing his sister Claire and how much she wanted Søren to leave the priesthood, she’d buy them a house of their own as a wedding gift. They could go out in public together whenever they wanted. That would be nice. They could have kids, too. Did Søren even want children? He’d never said anything to her about it. Obviously she didn’t want kids. If she did she wouldn’t be sitting here on the bathroom floor in the worst pain of her life. They’d have to do something for money, of course. Søren could work at the United Nations as a translator. She would...what? What did she want to do?

Not get married. That’s what she wanted to do. She hadn’t even figured out who Eleanor Schreiber was yet. How the fuck was she supposed to be Eleanor Stearns?

“No,” Eleanor said. “I’m not marrying you.”

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“Of course it’s up for discussion. Why in hell do you think getting married is going to solve anything?”

“I can’t leave you alone anymore. I leave you alone too much. If I had been here, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you had been here, it might have been yours.”

“And you wouldn’t have gone through this alone. I’ll call the bishop now.”

He stood up off the floor. Elle reached out and grabbed his leg at the ankle.