‘Sorry, Tom. Grace is her name, not a description.’
‘Shit is a fine word,’ I said diplomatically. ‘It is quick to its point.’
‘There are no ladies in this house,’ Rose said.
‘And I am no lord.’ Now wasn’t the time to tell them that I was, however, technically a member of the French aristocracy.
Rose sighed. I can remember her sighs. They were rarely sad sighs. They always had a sense ofthis is the way things are and how they are going to be and that is perfectly fineabout them. ‘Good. Well, today is a new day.’
I liked these two. They were a comfort amid the silent howl of grief.
I wanted to stay. But I didn’t want them to be in danger. They couldn’t be curious about me. That was the main thing.
‘My mother was thrown from a horse,’ I said, from out of nowhere. ‘That’s how she died.’
‘That’s sad,’ said Grace.
‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘Very sad.’
‘That is what I dream of sometimes.’
She nodded. She may still have had questions but she kept them inside.
‘You should probably rest today. Restore your humours. So, while we go to the orchard you can stay in the cottage. And tomorrow you can go and play your lute and bring us money.’
‘No, no, I will pay my debt. I will earn some money today. You are right, I will go into the street and I will play.’
‘Any street?’ asked Grace, amused.
‘A busy one.’
Rose shook her head. ‘You need to be in London. South of the city walls.’
She pointed. She showed me the way.
‘A boy playing the lute! They will rain pennies on you.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Look, the sun is out. There will be good crowds. It might give you new things to dream about.’
And the sun shone through the window and lit her face and strands of her brown hair turned gold, and for the first time in four days my soul – or what I used to consider my soul – for the smallest sliver of a moment felt something other than insufferable torment.
And her little sister picked up her basket and opened the door and the day streamed in, a slanted rectangle of light working its alchemy on the wooden floor.
‘So then,’ I said, as if I was going to say something more. And Rose caught my gaze and smiled and nodded as if I just had.
London, now
It is three in the morning.
I really should be in bed. There are only four hours left before I have to be up for work, for school.
Yet, realistically, there is no way I am getting to sleep. I switch off the Discovery Channel documentary about Ming, the five-hundred-and-seven-year-old clam, which I was watching on the computer.
I am sitting here staring at the screen. It probably isn’t very good for my headache to be doing this. But I am resigned to it now. It is the curse of the alba. A kind of altitude sickness, but of time, not height. The competing memories, the jumble of time, the stress of it all, made these headaches an inevitability.
And then, of course, being threatened at knife point hadn’t helped. And seeing Anton among the boys had unsettled me.
