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for you.”
    â€œFor me?” I lifted an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”
    â€œDo you mean to ask what I wanted in return? I have already received far more than I expected.” He winked.
    My face burned. “Excuse me, please. I am not usually so . . . demonstrative. You saved my life.”
    â€œTherefore, you kissed me with mere gratitude? I do not think so. I felt much more.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively and laughed again. “But if that is how you express gratitude, then I will remind you daily how I rescued you from drowning in the Seine.”
    â€œI cannot accept this gift. Fashioned by the king’s astronomer—this is too dear. You must keep it and bring it to our lessons for us to use together.”
    â€œThere will be no more lessons for a while.” We started up the bank together, toward my uncle’s house. The breeze had stopped; the air was as still, now, as my wondering heart.
    â€œNo more lessons?” I longed, at that moment, to curl up on the sand, among the vineyards, and close my eyes. “I understand. After the way I have behaved tonight, I cannot blame you.”
    â€œIt cannot be helped.”
    â€œYou probably despise me, and with good reason.”
    â€œDespise you?” Abelard shook his head. “The opposite is closer to the truth.”
    â€œâ€‰â€˜ Anger is cruel and fury overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?’ ” The proverb sprang to my lips. “With my jealousy, I have driven you away.”
    â€œDriven me away? Would that it were so, for then I might have the pleasure of changing my mind and remaining with you.”
    Duty called Abelard to his parents’ home in Brittany, he said. His father had become ill, and his condition worsened every day. Abelard must hasten to him, as well as sign the papers giving his brother the lands and title Abelard had forfeited so long ago in embracing the philosopher’s life.
    â€œIt is a mere formality,” he said of relinquishing his birthright. “I chose knowledge and wisdom long ago over the life of a lord—the lap of Minerva over the court of Mars, as I like to say.”
    â€œYour father permitted you to choose?” The word coated my tongue like cream.
    â€œMy father served as a knight in the court of Anjou, where philosophy and song are revered as highly as God. He might have chosen the scholar’s life for himself, had he not married my mother.” Abelard halted his steps and turned to me, his eyes bright. “Were you truly jealous of Agnes?”
    Heat flooded my face. “Does that amuse you?”
    â€œIt delights me. It tells me that you care.”
    My pulse throbbed sweetly. Questions filled Abelard’s eyes once more, but I had no answers—only questions of my own.
    â€œI hate leaving you now, when our feelings are only beginning to blossom.” He reached out for my hand and held it as though it were a flower whose petals he feared crushing. “My greatest fear is that, when I return, you might be gone.”
    â€œGone? But—where would I go?”
    â€œTo Fontevraud. Robert of Arbrissel will come to Paris in only a few weeks and might take you back with him.”
    â€œ Non . I want to complete my studies with you.”
    â€œYour uncle may try to send you now. He told me so today. A widow named Petronille of Chemillé helped your mother buildFontevraud, and she hopes Robert will appoint her as its abbess. If he does, it will ruin your uncle’s plans.”
    Non , I wanted to say. Would Uncle Fulbert force me into the abbey again so soon, sacrificing my happiness on the altar of his ambition? Unlike Abelard, however, I would not be permitted to choose my fate.
    I lowered my eyes. “I am dependent on my uncle and must do as he says.” How could I meet Abelard’s searching gaze, equal to equal, when another ruled me as completely as though I were his