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There was an immediate, positive result to discovering the burial site of the Great Heathen Army.

Leverage. The kind that moved boulders, and mountains, and intractable men.

The Albion Society was forced to parley with her as an equal. If any of the Fellows wanted access to her dig, she had to form an avowed part of their dig. The camp and the grave together shed light on the nature of the Great Heathen Army, on life and death in ninth-century England, and beyond. Cooperation benefited all. That is, if the true goal was the investigation of the remains of antiquity rather than the self-aggrandizement of the Society and its members.

Truly, it didn’t seem to be. But when pressed, everyone had to pretend.

Elfreda wasn’t much good in a parley, even if she went into it humming “God Save the King.” Georgie, however, was brilliant in a parley, not to mention the fact that, as landowner, they held all the cards. Their easy charm in combination with that hard fact had Mr. Clutterbuck submitting a supplemental charter for Elfreda’s admission to the Society within half an hour.

She’d almost refused. Almost. She’d rather start her own society. But the one didn’t preclude the other. And she vowed to make good use of her fellowship.

Now it was midsummer’s day, and she was walking back to Redmayne Manor after digging, not in Mr. Peach’s field but on the bluff. Of the items turned up and sorted, her mind kept circling an amber bead with two concentric grooves. Was it a bead? Or a spindle whorl? And if a spindle whorl, did that indicate women had camped alongside the men? Did whole families travel with the army? Gradually, raiders from the north had become settlers. That very transition was spelled out here, in the dirt of Derbyshire.

As she cut across the woodland clearing, skirting the pond, she realized she wasn’t heading to Redmayne Manor, not quite yet. The willow summoned her like harp song. Lines of her grandmother’s poetry seemed to float on the breeze.

A few minutes of communion.

She parted the fronds, slipped inside the shivering cascade of leaflets, and sucked in her breath.

“I’m all right,” said Georgie, looking up from where they sat, in trousers and shirtsleeves, back against the trunk, arms around their knees. Tears glittered on their lashes. They wiped them away. “Just a storm of violent weeping.”

She dropped down beside them. “Did something terrible happen?”

“No.” They gave a choked laugh. “Yes. Perhaps. I was thinking about my mother. I don’t do this anymore. This.” They waved their hand, indicating their wet cheeks and swollen eyes, expression frustrated, hurt, and so guilty, she pulled them into her.

“You don’t do this anymore,” she murmured, resting her cheek on their head, remembering their reasoning, “because your mother is alive.”

They grew heavy in the circle of her arms. “And because she did what she did for love.”

Love. Elfreda shut her eyes. She understood it more and less than ever before. Love wasn’t something you found, or fell into—it was the whole path and the process of seeking. You had to look where you were going and learn from where you’d been. You had to treat your wounds, or you wouldn’t get very far.

“Your mother made a choice.” Elfreda opened her eyes. “You respect that choice, I know. Perhaps it was the right choice, for her.” She shifted, settling them more firmly against her. “It wasn’t the right choice for you. Admitting that you’re sad, or even angry—it doesn’t mean you grudge her any happiness.”

They inhaled deeply, but for a long moment, they didn’t speak.

“What if I do, though?” Their voice was clogged with pain.

It made her ache. She wanted to take all their pain from them, to tell them that nothing and no one would hurt them ever again. But she wanted most of all to be true, true to Georgie, and to love’s promise, which was joy, real joy, joy that befriended even sorrow, even grief.

“Then you do,” she said. “You’re sad, and angry, and you grudge her.”

“That’s not who I want to be.”

“You could forgive her.” She hesitated. “You’d have to forgive yourself first.”

All was quiet within the lucent green bell of willow fronds.

They stirred, breaking free, turning from her. “Her letter.” They turned back, a folded paper in their hand. “I was thinking I should destroy it.”

She had to struggle not to snatch it away. “Why today?”

“Phipps brought me this morning to my estate’s most miserable little farm. Northeast of here, near the village. Untenanted, due to the condition of the buildings. It gave me an idea.” Something began to bloom in their face. “The barn is large, two stories, stone built. I want to turn it into a theater, with boxes and a pit, a stage with pulleys and trapdoors for flying and sinking, painted scenes, all the modern machinery. I’ll invite companies to play. They can stay in the farmhouse. In between, I’ll mount my own private productions. A small audience of intimates—my staff, of course, and the Janes, Phipps, all the Peaches—they’re rather a numerous family, in fact—and Mrs. Alderwalsey, although I most want to see her on the stage, along with Agnes, and Anne and Rosalie, and, well, there’s time to sort out the cast, and all of it, really.” They caught their breath. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s perfect.” Her heart soared. “A perfect idea.”

They were rotating the paper lengthwise. “My mother will never watch me perform. Twynham is the last place on Earth she could ever show her face. I can have the theater. But I can’t have her.” They stopped rotating the paper, pinching it so tightly, their fingertips went white. “Today, I realized I needed to let go of that fantasy—my mother in the audience, not just watching, seeing. It’s too late anyway. I needed her to see me years and years ago, not now.” They frowned down at the paper. But when they glanced up at her, their eyes were aglow. “I do feel seen. You see me. That makes it easier.”

She held their gaze, a lump in her throat. “May I?”