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Amake shrugged. “It must be done.”

The shed was a stone structure so old that it was completely green with vines and lichen. Inside, there were indeed several saws, and other tools, in varying states of decay. “No axe,” said Amake, searching through them. “Perhaps it was taken. Did you find it?”

“We did. Discarded near Farleigh House.”

“Can you describe it for me?”

Havelock did so.

“Yes,” said Amake. “That was certainly my axe. Though—recently sharpened? Not by me. I have not had cause to use it for many months.”

“Is it common knowledge that you keep one?” asked Havelock.

“Of course. I make it known that I love Farleigh Forest enough to care for its dead. I have yet to visit the Duke, but I am certain, when the times comes, that I will be called to remove him.” Amake stepped back into the sunlight outside. “I will find somewhere bright. And I will scatter his seeds all about his grave. Perhaps one will take.”

“Thank you, Amake, for answering our questions.”

“You are welcome. I hope that you find who felled the Duke. It is a terrible crime. Have you spoken to the Ambassador yet? He knows more about the forest than me, or any of us. Perhaps he can tell you about the Duke and what made him so rare.”

“Not yet,” said Havelock. “But we should go there now. Is his dwelling nearby?”

It looked as if the monastery had been abandoned for centuries. Stones littered the forest floor, clawed at by roots, and there was no clear path. As I navigated us a way through, I asked Havelock about Amake. “What did you make of her?”

“An impressive individual.”

“In what way?”

“It’s clear that her upbringing in Lagos was more difficult than she likes to admit. I imagine that her journey to get here was not easy, either.”

“How did you determine that?”

“Did you see the way that she was deliberately meeting our eyes? Her instinct was to defer to us—to bow her head and make herself inobtrusive. I imagine that she was raised to do as such around gentlemen like us. Lagos is a colony, after all.”

I considered Amake again. Havelock was right—she had conducted herself confidently, but it had not been an easy confidence. “Do you think her capable of felling the Duke? It was almost certainly her axe—she admitted as much.”

“Capable? Certainly. Perhaps the only person we have met so far who might be.”

We emerged into something of a courtyard, and I was surprised to see flags, or tapestries, hanging from the higher ruins. There was a man sitting in the sunshine with a handloom, so absorbed in the meticulous passing of his thread through it that he did not seem to notice us.

“Good afternoon,” called Havelock.

The man started at this—looking for all the world like a frightened rabbit. “Oh!” he said as we approached. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“Are you the Ambassador?” I asked.

“I suppose I am. My name is Bartholemew, though.”

These are the things that Havelock noticed about Bartholemew Filigree, known as the Ambassador, that he would later recount to me:

Bartholemew was a slender fellow, who wore a pair of meticulously maintained spectacles. He was clothed in a set of robes so plain and shapeless that he rather resembled a monk, or a hermit, but the tools he used for weaving were of a particularly high quality—made bespoke for him. His hair and beard were lengthy, though well combed, and they had flecks of ash lingering in them. When he walked, he walked with a pronounced limp, and though he tried to hide the tremor in his hands, it was clear that he was pained by them.

The tapestries up on the walls behind him depicted trees. One was broad and austere—covering the whole of the cloth with its vast network of branches—and the other was tall and silver, without many branches, except for those in its canopy. “The Bishop,” said Bartholemew, noticing the direction of my attention. “And the smaller one is the Judge.”

“Are they local trees? I can see words in their designs.”

“Yes. I weave a new tapestry for each of them every year.”

“Every tree in the forest?” I asked.