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“Me too,” Lucinda said with the sudden realization that she did yearn for a sister and not only for the brother she had lost. It would be a joy to have a sister such as Rosalind, sweet and considerate and entirely deserving of a better fate. At this late hour it was unlikely Grandma Jones would be coming, and it would benefit them both to have the comfort of another body. She certainly did not relish spending the night in this room stained by evil. The prospect must be unbearable for Rosalind. So she set a candle beside the bed, and they snuggled under the covers side my side, Rosalind next to the wall, Lucinda placing herself between her and the door hoping to be a kind of human barrier to help block out her fear of another intruder. They took it in turns to read from Nashe’s story until finally Rosalind drifted into a fitful sleep.
Lucinda did not snuff the candle out, but let it burn itself down. There was only a tiny window to let in any light. A large orange moon cast a strange eerie glow that did nothing to help her sleep. Without the benefit of valerian her mind ran faster than a ferret down a rabbit hole going over and over the last few weeks. What manner of man committed crimes like these, coldly cruel and carefully planned? Did he lie in his own bed and gloat over his treasures, a row of stolen hair, a cache of violent memories, a random collection of women held terrified at the point of his blade? She reached out to touch Rosalind’s hair, the gold turned to burnished copper by the glow of the orange moon, feeling for the gap where a lock was hacked off and claimed as booty. Where was it now? Being fondled in his grimy hands? Somehow, she would find him and snatch the glimmering treasure from his grasp. How was it that Rosalind described him?
A man with eyes like ravens waiting to eat your soul.
Next morning, despite a fitful sleep, she woke early with the dawn. Rosalind showed no signs of rousing, so she carefully crept out of their shared bed, rearranged her hair and splashed herself with some water she found in a flask. Drifting over to the bookshelf she idly leafed through a folio or two, her fingers coming to an abrupt stop when a page came loose from Robbie’s copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Trying to fit it back into the pages, the title of the piece caught her eye. The Swordmaster’s Daughter. Was this? Should she? The temptation was too much. She read on, curiosity and anticipation proving stronger than conscience or qualms. As she ran a finger under each of the fourteen lines, the words burned an indelible imprint into her heart.
The Swordmaster’s Daughter – Sonnet No 1.
No soft and fragile petal set to fall.
Nor sweet fair rose, although beset by thorn,
more prickled weed, sown wild, grown proud and tall,
untamed, unshaped, entreaties met with scorn.
Fire in her hair, steel eyes ablaze with fight,
she wields a blade with deadly practiced grace.
One gaze, scorching heat swiftly doth ignite
mad passion, desire burning for the chase.
Thrust. Parry. Lunge. I plunge into her path.
What cost? Who cares? Not I. Her face enough
a frozen heart to burn, this lonely hearth
no longer cold and bleak. Could this be love?
Yet still she spurns protection. Throws me down.
Sweet insurrection, leaving me… to drown.
Hastily she stuffed the sheet of paper back between the folio’s leaves. She turned around to find Rosalind wide awake and studying her.
“He’s a deep one, our Robbie,” she said. A flush of heat suffused Lucinda’s face. Rosalind gave a wan smile and swung her feet out of bed. “He is always trying to do the right thing and protect everyone else. I fear he knows not how to save himself.”
