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“You have one?” asked Anker.

“I am working on a theory.”

“Then do you believe that it is no more than a trick?”

“Not at all. You will be glad to know that the evidence I am gathering absolutely suggests that the trees of Farleigh Forest are expressing themselves. All I have is an idea of where they might have learned their words. And if I’m right: It’s extraordinary.”

“I would be pleased to hear your theory, when you’re ready to present it.”

We enjoyed a little more time in the presence of the Bishop, before moving back outside. The wind had picked up a little, making the white sky course overhead, and rippling the mirror-glass puddles. Havelock paused at a grave in the shade of the church, which looked to have been recently disturbed. “Hello,” he said. “What’s this? Help me, will you?”

Brushing away a little of the earth, we began to uncover a richly patterned piece of cloth. There was one, and then another, and then a whole series of them, buried beneath a shallow layer of dirt. And on each and every one was the Duke, woven in all of his glory.

“Why,” I exclaimed, “these are the missing tapestries of the Duke!”

We ascended the hill that would take us to the Lovers, and admired the tapestries of the Duke as we went. The tapestries really were exquisite—so richly detailed and deftly woven—and they depicted a tall, proud tree, with a broad canopy. Each tapestry had the year woven into it, so that we could look back through the Duke’s various iterations, and watch as his words grew, becoming phrases as the seasons progressed.

“How do you think these came to be buried in Anker’s graveyard?” I asked Havelock.

“A very good question, and not one that I have an easy answer for.”

“Do you think he might have buried them himself?”

“It would be awfully careless of him. They were all too easy for us to stumble across.”

“Someone trying to cast suspicion upon him, then?”

“Most likely.”

“I do wonder, though…” I rubbed at my beard.

“What is it that you wonder?”

“I’ve been thinking about the Duke’s missing word. How a single word might be enough to stir a man’s passion.”

“There are many such words.”

“Yes. But what about blasphemy?”

Havelock raised his brows. “Blasphemy?”

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain, I mean. Remember how Anker told us that he was beginning to suspect that the trees of Farleigh Forest might have souls? And remember, also, the way that we came upon him reading them a sermon? Well … what if one of those trees were to blaspheme? Could the missing word be the name of God?”

Havelock smiled. “You have a wonderful imagination, Sebastian.”

“Do you think my musings have merit?”

“All of your musings have merit.”

I chuckled. “You are being very coy about this case.”

“Bear with me,” he said. “I promise, we are making progress.”

Soon, we emerged from the depths of the forest and onto a rockier slope. At the slope’s rise was a tumbled shale wall, and clutching hold of the remains of it was what at first sight looked like a small, broad prickly-looking tree. Yet as we drew closer, I could see that it was in fact two trees intertwined and growing into each other, with words growing in their respective coarse trunks, and even among their spindly leaves.

“Rowan, perhaps?” I said.

“Blackthorn,” came an answer, from the other side of the wall. There emerged Heather, who did not look pleased to see us. “Come to see the Lovers?”