The word struck me like a boulder thrown with great force. My gaze shot to the girl, the breath leaving my body.

The young woman looked back at me, her brown eyes innocent and uncomprehending, and the same shade as my own.

Gabriella Lacey. My daughter.

"No." The word burst from my tight throat. I stepped around of Carlotta, blocking her way.

Gabriella looked startled. Carlotta moved her grip to the girl's arm. "Later," she said to me. "Not now. We will come to it later."

She had not changed in one respect. Anything Carlotta could avoid facing, she would shove away from her with force.

I had recovered from the grief of her leaving me. I had lived through the anger and loneliness and resignation. I could forgive Carlotta for deserting me, because I had made her miserable. But I had never forgiven her, nor would I ever forgive her, for taking away my daughter. I had not seen Gabriella since she was two years old.

I said, "By the laws of England, she belongs to me."

Mothers had no legal guardianship over their children unless they were granted it, which I had not done. Carlotta taking Gabriella away had been a crime in truth.

The worry in Carlotta's eyes told me she knew very well what she had done, and what I could do to retaliate. She looked at me pleadingly. "We must speak of it later. Not here. Not now. "

" Maman, what is the matter?" Gabriella asked in French. "What is happening?"

Carlotta arranged her face in soothing lines. "Nothing, my dear," she answered, her tone too bright. "We will go home."

I pressed my walking stick against the side of Carlotta's skirt. She could not rush away, her favorite method of solving problems, without pushing past me and making a scene. Gabriella peered at me anxiously. She no doubt thought me a madman, accosting her mother for whatever diabolical reason was in my crazed mind.