I took the stack from him and put it in the washbasin, where I intended to leave it until today’s business was finished. How could I turn my thoughts to anything practical afterBut there are other ways of giving and receiving pleasure?
When Harker came back with the teapot, I removed the lid out of habit to empty it.
At its bottom, the leaves formed a rose.
Messengers
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
I looked at him; he was watching me warily.
“I want to believe it’s a fair omen,” I replied, holding out the pot.
He took it and peered inside, turning it in his hands. “Is it a flower?”
“A rose was what first came to my mind. It reminds me of the one at the top of the stained glass window in your laboratory.”
“Yes, a rosette. Roses have strong religious associations. They also have many health benefits, and spiritually they are considered to be protective.” His lips curved down as he handed the pot back to me. “They can be used for blood purification, and I experimented with sweetbriar when distilling my vital essence.”
“It didn’t work?”
“It nearly killed me.”
I sighed and let the pot slip into the washbasin.
My cheeks warmed as I rememberedIn the Leaves. “Mrs. Rochester says a rose in a teacup is a symbol of romance. Wearenewlyweds.”
“Mmm. Occam’s razor.” I raised an eyebrow, and he added, “It’s a problem-solving principle that says the least complicated explanation is often the preferred one.” Gaze softening, he said, “I choose to interpret it as a nudge toward our meeting with the priest. Are you ready to go?”
Fog had settled in overnight, making it easier for a youthful-looking stranger in fine, old-fashioned clothing to escort a plainly dressed, unmarried miner’s daughter without anyone taking much notice.
Though the hour was still early, it was late enough that we’d missed the miners’ march to Wheal Enys. But a farmer driving a cart laden with pears tipped his hat to us as we set out.
Once he was gone, Harker said, “There’s something I need to tell you. I saw another of Goosevar’s memories last night.”
I turned, eyes wide. “Why haven’t you said so?”
“Because this morning it felt more important to speak of us.”
My heart skipped, and I squeezed his arm. He covered my hand with his.
“Sometime in the night I started thinking about my memory of Goosevar’s origin,” he said, “and about the connection between him and me. That memory came to me in a dreamlike state, as I was dying. But I wondered whether it might be possible for me to call up his memories intentionally.”
“And you have!”
“I believe so, though I’m not sure whether it has gained us anything. I had seen his beginning, so I tried to see his end, assuming it to be true that he’d been killed by St. Gomonda. I tried calling uphismemory based on my own memory of seeing the painting in the bell tower as a boy. And fragments did seem to come to me. I saw robed priests, large crosses, and even a man armed with a bow. There was panic and angry shouting in a language I would guess to be Old Cornish.”
“Was it like last time? Did itfeelthe same, I mean?”
Harker nodded. “I saw it through his eyes. He was frightened and enraged. My own head was burning with it. Just as an arrow struck us, I lost my connection to the memory. But I felt the arrow’s impact anyway, in the same place Jack’s bullet penetrated.”
I let out a breath. “Well, I don’t think I agree with you that it’s not important. Knowing that the holy men defeated him, at least for atime, as well ashowthey did it, could help us. But the arrow is hard to understand. Jack shooting him in the chest barely slowed him.”
“Maybe they were able to defeat himbecausethey were holy men. They had crosses, which we know can cause injury. I wish the memory had come to me more complete.”
“Should we have another look at the painting when we get to the church?”
“Yes, good idea.”
