Cosima looked around until she spotted a sign pointing to the toilets. She offered an apologetic wave to Barnabus and gestured at the sign. He gave her an irritated nod without missing a single word of his speech.
“Follow me.”
They found themselves in a hall, where Edie immediately took charge. “We have to go up, I think. This castle has nothing to look at but the fireplaces and the stained-glass windows, so let’s do that.”
Cosima followed Edie up a flight of stairs, mentally cataloging the glossy swish of her hair across the back of her jacket, the heart shape of her ass, trim ankles in Converse. Every detail in sharp focus, precious enough to seal with wax inside an envelope and lock into the fastness of a keep.
It was dizzying to notice this much. Feel this much. How did people survive this? Had her mother built an empire and felt this way at the same time? How did Duncan focus on golf or the eight-hundred-page novels he enjoyed? A colleague had gotten married a few months ago, a contracts attorney. Could a person read fine print and be in love at the same time? Cosima was having a hard time not tripping up the stairs.
Edie stopped at the landing and leaned against the sill of a keyhole-shaped window, clutching her middle and breathing hard. “I hate stairs. Are you dying?” She looked over her shoulder out the window at the rolling hills and collection of white and gray clouds moving fast over the sky, casting shadows on the landscape.
Yes. Cosima was dying.
They mutually settled into silence.
This had been happening since they left the platform in Sleaford and took the shuttle to the castle. It had been a relief when they joined the tour group and Barnabus launched intohis droning lecture, giving them an excuse not to try to talk to each other. Cosima knew that a certain amount of awkwardness was likely called for in the wake of her confession, but she didn’t like it.
“Should we find another bank of these stained-glass windows to try to interpret?” Edie mused. “I don’t understand why the map doesn’t have an illustration like the ladder to give us a hint. Did we miss something on the chessboard at Harlaxton Manor that would have told us what to look for?”
“I took a picture of the rook. We can see if we missed something.”
“Let’s do that on the next story after we check out the windows.” They finished the climb and arrived at a new room in the tower where they could hear Barnabus’s voice again.
“They beat us up here.” The tour guide was already hailing them. Cosima wanted to growl with frustration.
“There you ladies are! Lucky you’ve rejoined us, as I’m just about to discuss the tapestries.”
“Smashing,” Edie said.
Barnabus began his lecture. Cosima held her phone at waist height, hiding it from him as she attempted to zoom in on the rook she’d taken a picture of in the manor’s library.
“As you’ve no doubt noticed, these rather glorious tapestries are in theme with the room, which would have been a private room, one of the bedchambers, perhaps, used by Lord Cromwell and his lady wife. But of course none of the original furnishings or appointments remain. The tapestries date to Lord Curzon, who had them made to honor Lord Cromwell’s significant connection to Joan of Arc. You’ll see her just there.” The tour guide pointed. “That’s her trial in Rouen, in Normandy, which Lord Cromwell attended in person. She was found guiltyof heresy, you’ll recall, and burned at the stake, though the tapestry leaves that off.”
“Wait!” Edie’s voice was loud in the stone-walled room. She had her hand up, waving. “You mean Lord Cromwell, the one who built this entire castle, was known—like, very,veryknown—to have traveled all the way to Normandy, which is in France, right?”
Barnabus sniffed. “Indeed.”
“To Rouen, France, to go to Joan of Arc’s trial. Joan of Arc, who is a famous person?”
“Again, indeed.”
Edie grabbed on to Cosima’s shoulder again to whisper in her ear while Barnabus stared daggers at the both of them. “We didn’t even have to come all the way here! If we had known Tattershall was freaking built by a guy who went to France—the France we already know Agatha wants us to go to, which she drew on the map with a sword on it, the kind of sword, say, a teenage general would wield, with a big ol’ Christian cross on it—we could be in the Chunnel right this minute instead of freezing our toes off with these fine people.”
Cosima took a deep breath of cut grass and lemons. “Indeed.”
Grinning, Edie gave her attention back to the tour while Cosima silently counted to herself. It was fifteen seconds of fidgeting before Edie’s voice rang out again. “We’ve got to bounce, Dankworth! Thanks for everything.”
She grabbed Cosima’s hand, and against every instinct her mother had implanted inside her, Cosima “bounced” and rudely left a planned event.
The little girl’s voice followed them down the stairs. “Can we go, too, Mummy?”
Soon enough, they were outside on the grounds of the castle.
“Where’s Normandy, then?” Edie walked backward in front of Cosima. “Besides France. I know I mentioned the Chunnel, but I actually have no idea. If this place shares a border with Germany, maybe we’ll have to fly?”
“We can take the Chunnel. Normandy’s close to England. Remember World War II? Storming the beaches?”
“Yes! Right. Rouen.” She pronounced the word with an exaggerated French accent. “Itsoundslike it will be more exciting than Tattershall.” They looked back at the castle. “I’m going to need to visit another castle to feel like I visited a castle.”
