Page 28

It was a mirror-glass day. After the rains came a stillness over the forest, making every puddle a bright surface. There were mirrors everywhere—collected in the roots of the trees, and the track we followed between them. Only the occasional droplet fallen from a branch disturbed the image—rippling a surface, and the white sky within it.

It was warm enough that the air smelled of petrichor, and I breathed deeply of it—a fresh, cleansing scent that felt like a new beginning.

“Which tree shall we visit first?” I asked Havelock.

“The Judge, I think,” he said. “I should like to know how it has earned its name.”

As we approached the village, the sound of a violin being played became audible. The song was slow and sonorous—not quite a dirge, but mournful nonetheless. We followed the sound to the village inn, where there was a young girl playing for a small audience. She was stood up on one of the stone benches, and was completely caught up in the playing—her eyes closed. The emotion of the song and the player gripped me with its intensity.

When the girl was finished, several members of the audience were in tears. There was a muted applause, and a few paused to thank her for her song before moving along. We were the last to approach.

“Christopher Temple, yes?” said Havelock. “His ode to autumn, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s right,” said the girl, brightening. “I’m glad to meet someone who recognises it. Temple is one of my favourite composers.”

“He is one of our neighbours,” I said. “We hear him practicing through the wall.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Christopher Temple is your neighbour?”

“He is.” Havelock gave a small bow. “I’m Havelock, and this is Sebastian. We enjoyed your playing. I think Christopher would be impressed.”

“I’m Verity,” said the girl, and she did an awkward curtsy. “You must live in London, then? Do you see many shows?”

“We go often.”

“Are they as wonderful as they say?”

“Every bit.” Havelock smiled. “You would be very welcome to visit with us. We could introduce you to Christopher, and take you to a show or two.”

“Really? You’d do that?” said Verity, clutching her violin tightly.

“Is that a Ruggielli?” asked Havelock. “It has an excellent sound.”

“It is. Maple wood, I’m told. The Duchess bought it for me. All the way from Paris.” Verity turned her violin over in her hands and became sombre. “Do you think we could make instruments with the Duke? His was a hard wood, and it would play well. It would be a good way of honouring him, wouldn’t it?”

“Is that what you were doing with your song? Honouring him?”

“Yes,” said Verity. “I’ve been thinking about him a lot, in recent days. I’m very fond of Temple’s seasonal quartet, and his ode to autumn felt the most appropriate for the Duke.”

“Will there be a wake?” I asked. “Perhaps you could play at it.”

“Perhaps,” said Verity. “I’m not sure. I don’t think anybody knows. We’ve had trees fall before, but never one so dear.”

“I think it would be good to have one,” said Havelock. “Funerals can be cathartic. Especially for a community.”

“Then perhaps I should speak to the Duchess. See about arranging something.”

“I think that’s very wise of you. I’m sure she would appreciate the suggestion.” Havelock tipped his hat. “We should continue on our way, but it has been a pleasure to meet you, Verity. And remember our offer: You would be very welcome to visit us in London.”

“Thank you, sirs! Thank you very much indeed.”

We continued to navigate our way through the village, treading through the mud left in the wake of the rains, and pausing from time to time to make idle chitchat with the locals and find our bearings. The day was bright enough that some of the thatch rooftops were steaming, and I was splashed as a group of children rushed by, laughing.

Eventually, we came to a fork in the road, where there was a clearing. At some point in the distant past, it looked as if a tree had been felled at the heart of the clearing, and growing up from its thick roots and ancient stump was a slender birch tree—still young. The birch was unusual because there were dozens of small white ribbons tied to its branches, making it look as if it had a fluttering white canopy.

Amake was tying a new white ribbon to a branch.

We squelched across the muddy fork, and Havelock hailed her. “Good morning, Amake!”