She had grown. Kate's vicious friend, once so elevated, was taller by little more than a head. She drew her brows together, and studied the circles under his eyes. He said lightly, 'My dear girl; it's Almoner's Saturday. With six frails of figs and a sackful of almonds, I am offering you my name.' Philippa's lips parted. The smith in her chest, changing a wooden mallet for a small charge of gunpowder, pulverized brain, lungs and stomach and left her standing, wan as a blown egg. She said shakily, 'How would that help?' Round his mouth, the curled lines deepened, and his eyes, very blue, lit suddenly with something like the flame she had seen struck in them at other times, by other things and other people. 'Stout Philippa,' he said. 'Sit down and hear... There is no guarantee for you now except marriage. Do it now, and you go home a respectable matron of fifteen...sixteen--' 'Nearly seventeen,' said Philippa. 'Yes. Well: with no money but a good many friends and enough property to keep a roof over your head and Kuzum's. Then, as you choose, you may divorce me.' She cleared her throat. 'On what grounds?' He looked at her directly, his voice level. 'On very obvious grounds. We shall find another Kislar Agha, if you like, to give you a guarantee... You must have no fears that this will be anything but a marriage on paper. But I want it done now. Tomorrow, if the Embassy's chaplain can do it.' Philippa's gaze was also direct. 'You think there is a chance we may not all get home?' 'There is a chance some of us may not,' he said quietly. 'I want to do this very much. I have very little to offer you... an irresponsible past, and a name which is .... in some places questionable. But it will shelter you until you can do better.' 'And you?' said Philippa. 'With a fifteen- ... sixteen- ... seventeen-year-old titular wife? What will Sybilla say? It isn't a practical methos of founding a dynasty.