THE SECRETS OF SAFFRON HALL
Clare Marchant

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Clare Marchant 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Lee Avison/Trevillion Images (background), Mark Owen/Trevillion Images (woman)

Clare Marchant asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008406271

Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008406288

Version: 2020-06-30

PRAISE FOR THE SECRETS OF SAFFRON HALL

‘Emotional and intense, this is a page-turning story of secrets that echo through time’

Rachel Hore, author of The Love Child

‘A rich and vivid historical story, The Secrets of Saffron Hall is one of those rare books that is totally engrossing. I loved it’

Nicola Cornick, author of The Forgotten Sister

‘The past and present are skilfully entwined in this captivating and emotional debut’

Heidi Swain, author of The Secret Seaside Escape

‘An intensely gripping, emotional read that kept me turning the pages until the early hours of the morning. An atmospheric story sure to please all fans of timeslip novels’

Christina Courtenay, author of Echoes of the Runes

‘Emotive, immersive and compelling, a beautiful story that captures the heart’

Liz Fenwick, author of The Path to the Sea

‘This pulled me in and didn’t let me go: a page-turner with such historical depth and tender touch that it enchanted my heart. I adored it’

Laura Jane Williams, author of The Love Square

‘Intriguing and fascinating, a real insight into a turbulent time in England’s history’

Kathleen McGurl, author of The Secret of the Château

‘A beautifully written story that pulls you in and whisks you away to another time. Clare Marchant is a fabulous new talent’

Rosie Hendry, author of the East End Angels series

‘A charming and engaging mystery, beautifully told’

Jenni Keer, author of The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker

Dedication

For you, Mum, who always believed in me.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for The Secrets of Saffron Hall

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

1541

Her hand trembled as she dipped the quill into the ink and wrote the words, the script barely legible as hot tears scattered across the parchment and soaked in, swelling the fibres.

Mary, in the arms of our Lord 17th November 1541

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa

Outside, the dark expanse of heavy grey cloud lay so low it was almost touching the tops of the bare trees. The bitter, icy wind threw sharp flecks of snow at the windows, whistling through the numerous gaps to find its way inside and curl raw fingers around her weary bones. It scarcely mattered. Her heart was already frozen, a hard painful lump, weighted in her chest. No amount of wool garments and fur-lined cloaks could warm her now.

Eleanor knew the chances of such a small baby who’d been born too soon surviving were slim. An impossible wish. But watching her daughter’s perfect features turn to alabaster just minutes after she’d arrived in the world was more than she could bear.

And now she sat in the tower, her body poised and still as she listened for the drum of approaching hooves, announcing the arrival of the king’s men. Never had she needed her beloved Greville more, but he wasn’t coming. The damp rushes at her feet were stuck together in clumps with the blood she’d lost. Her whole body ached. She wanted to lie down on the cold stone floor and let her life slip away with the blood still trickling from her. It stained her hands, darkening them where it had dried, stretching the skin tight over her knuckles.

They needed to leave and soon, very soon. Already they had tarried longer than she’d intended, and there was no time to do what was needed. All she could do was hope that by leaving this message someone would be able to decipher what she was asking, and answer her plea. Her eyes strayed across the floor against her will, drawn to where Mary now lay. Could she hear something? A whimper? The thin cry of distress? No, it was just her fevered imagination and the wheeling gulls buffeted by the winter winds outside the window, crying with her.

With shaking hands she began to write. infans filia sub pedibus nostris requiescit …

Finally, taking a pressed saffron flower, together with a sprig of rosemary, she laid them gently between the pages, and closed the book.

Chapter One

2019

‘Would you like me to help carry anything?’ Grandad leant in the study doorway, a mug of tea in one hand and a stack of custard creams in the other.

Amber looked up from the dusty box she was emptying, piling the contents onto the front of the desk where she was fast running out of space. Her pallid face was thin and pinched. Deep shadows smudged like bruises under her eyes reflected the hours she lay awake at night, whilst all around her slept.

‘Grandad, you can’t lift them. Don’t even think about it!’ she admonished. Biscuits were probably the heaviest thing he could carry these days.

‘You look too pale,’ he observed. ‘You should eat more.’

Amber ducked her head back into the box she was emptying and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m always this colour. It goes with the red hair.’ Her parents had used little imagination when they’d named her Amber. Standing up, she placed a handful of old London A–Zs on top of a precarious pile of almost identical copies, dating from the 1950s. ‘Really?’ She indicated them and raised her eyebrows. ‘Were you thinking of doing The Knowledge?’ She gave him a wry smile.

It was Grandad’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘Don’t change the subject,’ he told her, frowning from beneath his overgrown eyebrows, now almost white, but still holding faint traces of his own auburn colouring.

‘So, I’ve set up a spreadsheet to catalogue everything,’ she carried on as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘and I’m noting the location of the books in the house so you can find them later when you decide what to do with them.’

‘That all sounds very efficient.’

‘It’s what we agreed,’ she reminded him. ‘My skills as an archivist in exchange for bed and board.’ And a place to hide – she left the words unsaid. ‘It’s just as well I’m here for a year because I expect it’ll take that long to log all your books. There are thousands. I knew about the library of course, but I had no idea you’d filled the attics with who-knows-what.’

‘Well, that’s the problem when you’re a book dealer,’ he defended himself. ‘At auctions sometimes you have to buy a job lot when there’s only one book you actually want. I imagine everything in the loft is rubbish, but it needs going through first.’

‘Hmm, rubbish is probably the right word,’ Amber commented, adding a further two A–Zs to the pile and balancing a tattered copy of Malory Towers on top of some Jackie Annuals. She had to stop herself from flipping through some of the books she’d found, or the mammoth task would never be finished. At least there was plenty of reading material for the long, lonely nights. The dark hours when it was preferable not to fall asleep, because then she had to wake up, and remember all over again.

Grandad dunked one of his biscuits in his tea and tried to flip the soggy half into his mouth. These days his reactions weren’t as fast as they once were, and she heard him curse under his breath as it plopped back into his drink, sinking out of sight. The stroke that had left him with an imperceptible limp and a slight slurring of words when he was tired, had taken its toll on his left arm leaving it weakened and for the most part, useless. And being left-handed made the disability all the more cutting. After a lifetime of quick wit and lightning reactions, she could feel his frustration every day as the new body he inhabited failed him.

‘And how are you?’ He was always tentative about asking, but she was fading more and more every day. Shadows darkened her face, and he could no doubt see pale blue veins tracking across her forehead where she’d pushed back the strands of her short wispy hair.

‘Oh, you know, I’m okay.’ She knew exactly what he was referring to, but she wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not yet. She smiled at him although the wobble at the corner of her mouth belied her reply.

‘I may be old,’ he said a little too sharply, ‘but I’m not stupid. As well as being as thin as a rake, you’re looking washed out. You should eat proper food, not just soup and toast or cornflakes. It would help, you know.’ His mouth quirked and he raised his eyebrows. His eyes crinkled slightly, a small acknowledgement of his harsh words. ‘And every time I go into the kitchen, I find cups of tea you’ve made but not drunk. What’s that all about?’

‘I don’t sleep well.’ She shrugged. ‘Making tea is a comfort. A little routine I can do without thinking about it, to help clear my mind.’ Sometimes, it kept the demons at bay, just for a few minutes, she reflected silently. ‘And actually, I don’t remember my eating habits being part of our agreement – I’m here for some peace and solitude, and no nagging, thank you.’ She moved to another box and began to slam its contents onto the last unoccupied corner of the desk. A thick layer of grey dust rose into the air, a cloud of tiny motes effervescing in excitement at being set free, dancing in the weak sunlight that struggled to filter through the grimy windows. Amber suspected they hadn’t been cleaned in the decades since her grandmother had died.

After squashing the now empty box flat with undue aggression, she threw it into the corner of the room on top of a small mountain of similarly battered cardboard. Grandad watched in silence as she pulled another one towards her and ripped the top open, lifting out a handful of books and piling them up.

‘I thought your being here and having something to take your mind off … things, would perk you up. But that doesn’t seem to be happening yet. Maybe …’ he held his hand up slightly as she opened her mouth to interrupt ‘… being out here in such a remote location wasn’t such a good idea. Perhaps if you were with your parents, if you don’t want to be with Jonathan, it would be better for you? Kinder for your soul? Sometimes, isolation in troubled times isn’t the answer.’

Amber’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. ‘Er pot, kettle? Why did you hide yourself away in this big old rambling house after Grandma died, to run your business from behind closed doors? If you recall, you dumped Mum on Gran’s family and then ran away to bury yourself in the back of beyond. So excuse me, while I follow in your footsteps. Call it genetics if you like.’

She threw herself down onto the office chair behind the desk making it roll back slightly, and tried not to grind her teeth together. The hall had been in their family for generations and it was part of her essence, her core. It echoed with the souls of their red-headed ancestors and it had seemed only natural to return here when her life had been wrenched apart, to hide from the world. Although she loved her parents, their relationship was often strained and she felt closer to Grandad. She needed to be with him at that moment, and at the hall. So the last person she’d expected to question her decision had been Grandad himself.

As Amber sat down, her grandfather realised that she’d built a wall of books on the desk around her, and was now completely concealed from view. A barricade behind which she was hiding, yet again.

‘Just because I did it, doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do,’ he said into the void where she’d been standing. Turning carefully, letting his legs catch up momentarily with his brain, he returned to the living room and the two-thirty race at Kempton Park.

Once she was sure he’d left the room, Amber got to her feet again. She rubbed at the familiar tears that had started falling with the hem of her T-shirt, tilting her face upwards to try to stop them, but it was a futile gesture. The tracks were almost permanently engraved on her face, so many times had they snaked their way down, to drip off her small, pointed chin. She expected to wake up one morning with the lines indelibly marked on her cheeks forever more, like tattoos. A visible stain of her sorrow, to show the world what a terrible person she was, a failure. Life was hard enough, without a lecture from Grandad, the king of running away, sixty years hiding in this mausoleum of a house.

She’d only got a year’s sabbatical from the university, during which she needed to sort her life out, somehow. Decide if she and Jonathan had anything worth saving. The crushing grief, now a familiar friend, lay heavy on her shoulders as she walked through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea she wouldn’t drink.

Chapter Two

1538

From her room, Eleanor could hear the frantic commotion in the courtyard below, men shouting to the stable lads and servants, together with the impatient stamping of horses’ hooves against the cobbles. The bustling entourage that had arrived seemed huge. Nobody in the house was used to this number of guests and the noise they brought; Eleanor included.

Despite her reservations, she knew what protocol dictated. Her dear father had instilled good manners in her from an early age, and so she prepared to descend the stairs and greet Cousin William, now the owner of her home. It appeared he’d arrived not only with his family, but also a great many others.

By the time she reached the top of the stone staircase, accompanied by Joan, her companion and best friend, the great hall was swarming with people, the stench of damp wool clothing rising up and making her wrinkle her nose. Her eyes flitted amongst them to ascertain which of the many gentlemen, most of whom were still wearing their thick riding cloaks, was her cousin. Watching as the kitchen boy darted about offering jugs of ale, her glance caught on a pair of pale, flinty eyes, which narrowed on hers as they met, and locked. The woman was clothed in a heavily embroidered deep green velvet travelling cloak and stood beside a small, stocky man. Eleanor looked at Joan and together they both raised their eyebrows. Joan smiled and gave her a little nod of encouragement, before leaving her and returning to their room. She needed to do this on her own.

Eleanor pushed her way through the jostling people who hardly noticed her slight form, until eventually she found herself in front of the couple she’d spotted from the gallery above. Close up, William was barely taller than her own five foot three inches, his rotund body topped by a florid face, sweating profusely. Curtseying to them both, she greeted them.

‘My lord, lady, welcome to Ixworth. I hope you will be very happy in your new home.’

‘Cousin Eleanor, how lovely to meet you.’ What he lacked in height, he made up for with the volume in his voice. Eleanor winced slightly as a gust of stale, beery breath assailed her nostrils. ‘This is my wife, Lady Margaret.’

Eleanor repeated her curtsey with lowered eyes, but once upright again she stared into the piercing shards burning into her. Why did this woman hate her so much? Her animosity was leaking out of every pore on her pockmarked face. Her fine clothes and furs, the row of pearls sewn onto her fashionable French hood, failed to detract from the ravages her skin had taken. These people were moving into her wonderful home, taking everything her father owned because William was his heir and Eleanor merely a girl who could very soon be homeless, or despatched to a convent. Margaret should be dancing around the room in delight, not looking as if she may shatter into a million pieces at any moment.

‘Our fine son, Robert, will arrive in a few days,’ William continued. ‘He is but a year old and has a slight fever so will follow from Richmond when he is well, and a nursery has been established for him here. We’ve come straight from court and are of course sorry we were unable to arrive in time for your father’s funeral.’

He didn’t sound very remorseful, and a series of images flickered momentarily across her vision of the sparse funeral procession behind her father’s coffin as it made its way from the home he’d loved to the chapel where he was interred beside her mother.

‘Sir William will be sorely missed by the king,’ Margaret informed her, ‘and I cannot imagine what we will do in this godforsaken wilderness.’ Her long nose was screwed up and Eleanor began to realise why she was looking so out of sorts. She bit back the retort that they were more than welcome to return to court because she didn’t want them in her home. Except, it was no longer hers. She suddenly couldn’t stand the crowd, the oppressive heat and reek of unwashed bodies a moment longer.

‘Please excuse me,’ she muttered, before darting through the mass of people towards the door.

Once outside, she paused for a moment in the cooler damp air, taking big gulps. She’d been used to seventeen years of isolation and peace; how would she live with a house full of noise and clamour all day long? It was unbearable.

Looking across the pasture, her eyes lifted towards the pale cream sandstone of the priory walls, rising from the marshy ground that surrounded her home. Under the wing of the much larger Thetford Priory, this was a smaller and self-sufficient institution, the monks mostly a law unto themselves. As always it offered her the sanctuary she craved and without a second thought she gathered up her skirts, her feet flying across the ground towards it, running through the waist-high grasses along the well-trodden path.

Slipping through the battered oak door in the priory gardens, Eleanor let her breath out slowly, watching it form into vapour in front of her. Here, she was safe. The empty garden that lay before her filled her heart with calm. The fruit trees and rows of herbs and vegetables, immaculately tended by the monks, were a comfort. Despite the late hour, the swifts were still flitting above her head catching insects, and a pair of finches argued loudly together in a nearby fruit bush. Whatever happened at home, this small corner of her world was a constant. The soothing regularity of the brothers at their daily work, the chanting from the chapel as the flow of the Latin prayer washed over her and cleansed her soul of the uncharitable thoughts she’d had about her cousin.

Bending down, she tugged off a sprig of thyme, rolling the tiny green leaves between her fingers and thumb and sniffing at the pungent aroma they released. A slight rustle disturbed her thoughts, and looking up she saw Brother Dominic making his way towards her. He was her favourite of all the brothers, a dear friend, and Eleanor couldn’t help a wide smile spreading across her face, her childlike innocence simmering inside her. A feeling that had been all but extinguished in the past few months.

‘Are you visiting, or hiding?’ the young monk asked as he grew level with her. He’d only been ordained into the priory the previous year and was not much older than Eleanor herself. She saw in him a kindred spirit, someone who had to conform to the rules laid down, against their better judgement. His eyes, the clearest green she’d ever seen, sparkled mischievously at her under his raised eyebrows, already sure of the answer to his question.

‘Of course I’m here to visit,’ she replied. ‘If nobody knows this is where I am, that is merely a useful coincidence.’

‘Has your kinsman arrived yet?’

‘He has, along with his wife and a large retinue of other people. The hall was full. I greeted them, before leaving them to settle into their apartments. I doubt anyone will miss me for a while. Or at all.’

‘Then come inside and take a cup of mead. The prior will be pleased of some company – he is feeling pained again. This cool air and the damp doesn’t suit him. I have made a poultice with cloves and pennyroyal, but it does not seem to ease his aching.’

‘You could add some feverfew?’ she suggested. ‘Or oil of bay berries if you have any?’

‘I think we do. That’s a good idea, thank you. I’ll go and look right away.’

Eleanor found the prior, Father Gregory, in his private solar. From here the sound of the plain song, the deep melodic singing of psalms that undulated and swayed like trees in the wind was louder, making the stone beneath her thin slippers vibrate. He passed her an earthenware cup, and she sipped at the honey wine, feeling its warmth steal down inside.

Perching herself on the edge of a bench, she closed her eyes as the peace and serenity of the building rolled over her. She’d visited the priory with her father on almost a daily basis, for as long as she could remember. And now it was her sanctuary, a place where the soft call of routine never varied. All around her change was coming, plucking at her clothes, pulling her in through the sounds of horses’ hooves and the shouts of strange men. The news from London grew more concerning, that the king was closing many convents and monasteries and threatening to sweep away the once ordered life she’d known. What would the future hold for her friends? A prickle of fear and premonition crawled down her spine.

‘Word comes your cousin has arrived?’ the prior eventually said.

‘He has,’ she replied, distracted from her thoughts, and she explained about the train of people who had accompanied him.

‘It’s perhaps better not to antagonise him,’ Father Gregory reminded her, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. She needed to keep on the right side of her cousin: her situation was precarious and he owned the roof over her head. Eleanor frowned and nodded – she understood what was expected of her.

As she gazed out of the window, she realised the shadows were beginning to lengthen. A gentle snore from Prior Gregory alerted her to the fact that she had stayed too long and she slipped through the door into the Lady chapel, dipping her fingertips into the holy water and crossing herself before sinking to her knees in the gloom at the back. Closing her eyes, she murmured the vespers, the familiar evening prayers, whilst the deep plain song continued as a background to her murmuring. The flickering candlelight threw wavering shadows of the hooded brothers across the rough walls and vaulted ceiling. Eleanor lifted her head for a moment, letting the sounds of her childhood seep into her body. She was balancing on the cusp of a new life, all that was familiar about to disappear from beneath her.

Getting up from her knees, she crept through the door and back into the meadow where dusk was creeping in. It wasn’t wise to be out after dark, especially when the house was full of strangers. She had no desire to meet any of them outside the protective walls of home.

Chapter Three

2019

The unusually warm late September weather clung on to the last traces of summer, as if loath to let it segue gracefully into autumn. Day after day of dense oppressive heat left the air thick and humid, congesting their lungs. Before she went to bed, Amber opened her windows as wide as she dared, concerned about how old they were. She didn’t want them to drop out of the stone mullions. It didn’t help though; the heavy, petrified air hung still and silent both outside in the hall grounds and in her room.

She listened to the familiar sounds of the house as it creaked and settled for the night. At her feet, Grandad’s huge ginger cat, Gerald, was already curled up fast asleep, oblivious to the sticky conditions. Thinking she’d never be able to sleep, Amber lay down on top of the duvet with her T-shirt sticking uncomfortably to her skin.

She must, however, have dozed off, because she was suddenly woken by a crash so loud it scared Gerald into a shrieking orange ball of fluff. When she opened her bedroom door, he shot out. Her room was lit up by a brilliant harsh blue-white light, which stung her eyes and made her wince. It was swiftly followed by another crack similar to the one that had woken her, a noise that sounded as if the earth were being split in two, followed by a booming and grumbling rolling away into the distance. Then came the welcome sound of rain, big droplets splattering onto the ivy outside. Quickly she shut her windows but left the curtains open, watching the streams of water coursing down the little panes of glass as the storm raged on. She’d bet money Gerald had changed his mind about going outside, and had found a dry spot to curl up somewhere downstairs.

As the wind howled around the building, an almighty bolt of lightning hit the house. Amber heard a loud bang and a sizzling noise as if something somewhere was frying. Gingerly she opened her bedroom door and poked her head out, sniffing the air for the smell of burning. The house was in darkness, but she couldn’t smell anything untoward. When she flicked the switch for her bedroom light, nothing happened. The electricity was off. She heard shuffling and grumbling from Grandad’s room and she cautiously inched towards it. The last thing she wanted was for him to fall in the dark.

‘Grandad, are you all right?’ she called into the silence following another crash of thunder, which vibrated beneath her feet. ‘The electricity’s gone off.’

‘Yes, I’m awake – hang on.’ She heard his door open a little way along the corridor and as the sky was lit up again, she could see him momentarily silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Don’t come out of your room,’ she called to him. ‘I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.’

‘I’m fine,’ he tutted. ‘We’ve a lightning conductor on the top of the tower. I expect it’s been hit and frazzled; it won’t be the first time. There’s nothing we can do until daylight though. Can you smell burning?’

Worried, Amber sniffed the air again. ‘No I definitely can’t,’ she confirmed.

‘That’s fine then, we’re not on fire.’ He sounded quite cheerful as his words were drowned out by yet another ear-splitting crash outside and the corridor was lit up once more.

Amber gave out an involuntary squeal. She’d never been afraid of storms, but this was something else. ‘Are you sure we’re safe here?’ she asked as her heart rate began to return to normal.

‘Of course.’ Grandad chuckled. ‘This house has survived five hundred years of weather; we’ll be fine. It may end up losing a few slates from the roof. We can check them in the morning. Try and get some sleep now.’

She paused for a moment listening to him bumping into furniture, followed by the creaking of springs as he climbed back into bed.

The idea of sleeping through the noise outside, the rain still battering against the window, was laughable. After making her way back to her room she was about to shut the door when she heard the scampering sound of claws on parquet flooring. Gerald raced back in and disappeared under her bed.

Eventually as dawn began to break, the storm moved away to be swallowed up by the North Sea and Amber managed a couple of hours of fitful sleep before being woken by Gerald, with a full bladder, scratching at the door wanting to go out again. Slipping on her dressing gown she followed him downstairs, where his fluffy posterior disappeared out of the cat flap. There was no sign of Grandad even though he was usually an early riser and it was already light outside.

Pushing her feet into a pair of Grandad’s far too large wellington boots she’d found beside the back door, Amber stepped outside. The air felt crisper, clearer, and she drew in her breath, enjoying the cool freshness in her lungs, smelling the damp earth and scent of wet vegetation where it had been battered the night before. Mint, chives and wet roses assailed her senses as she splashed through puddles on the old broken brick path leading to the vegetable patch. She was pleased to see the glass in the greenhouse was still intact. Grandad would be relieved.

The lawns were littered with branches and twigs, the remains of the last of the summer flowers scattered across the grass, but Amber barely had time to register them as she plodded on in the cumbersome boots until she came to the reason for the crash they’d heard the previous night. Strewn on the ground at the base of the tower, supposedly the oldest section of the building, were various pieces of rough masonry and stone. She looked up at the tower and could see nothing structurally amiss, although she suspected the local conservationist and listed building planners would disagree with her. Her archiving work would have to pause while she sorted this out.

She retraced her muddy footsteps inside and started to make phone calls to find out when their electricity would be restored and enquiries over the correct protocol regarding the damage to the tower.

By the time Grandad arrived in the kitchen it was past nine o’clock and Amber had organised everything she could, although by that point she was becoming desperate for a hot drink and some toast.

‘It’s not just us without power,’ she reported. ‘There are cables down between here and Downham Market. It may be off all day, but they’re working on it.’

‘No television for me today then.’ He pulled a despondent face as he flopped down into a chair at the table. ‘But if that’s all we’ve suffered, we can’t complain.’

‘Actually, it’s not all,’ she warned him, explaining about the stonework she’d found at the base of the tower. ‘I can’t see where it’s come from, but I called the listed building people at the council about getting a builder and they’re coming out to look themselves. If the roads are clear they should be here this afternoon, but when I spoke to them they didn’t know if there are any trees down around here.’

Amber was delighted when just before lunch the lights flickered and then came back on. She and Grandad were tucking into bacon sandwiches and their second cup of tea when a banging on the front door announced the council officers had arrived to inspect the tower.

‘I must admit I wasn’t expecting you to come out so soon,’ Amber told them as she took them around the outside of the house. ‘If you can maybe suggest a builder, I’ll call them to come and have a look.’ It was obviously the wrong thing to say. The older of the two men stopped in his tracks making his younger assistant almost cannon into him.

‘Mrs Morton,’ he began, his voice deliberately slow as if he were talking to a five-year-old, ‘this building is grade two listed, little short of a national monument. It may be your grandfather’s home, but it’s also part of this nation’s history and as such you must use a specialist historical building restorer, not any old cowboy you find on Google.’

Amber ground her teeth together as she tried to think of a response that wasn’t as condescending as the way he was speaking to her. The younger officer looked suitably embarrassed and gazed around the garden not meeting her eye.

‘I’m well aware of the history and provenance of my family home, thank you,’ she replied, her voice cool and modulated, ‘which is why I asked you here to view the damage, and to suggest who I could call. I have no intention of just searching for someone on the internet.’ She strode away across the grass to the tower, stepping over the pieces of debris still lying on the lawn and leaving the two men to follow in her wake.

‘So, here’s the stonework, but I can’t work out where it’s from.’ She spoke directly to the younger man as he and his colleague removed monoculars from their pockets and used them to silently examine the top of the tower. Eventually he cleared his throat and replied.

‘I suspect the crenellations took a direct hit from the lightning last night,’ he told her. ‘I can see one of them is broken, but it looks to be the least of your problems. There’s a crack from the roof about a third of the way along the façade on this side. It travels down to the window frame. You need to get that looked at urgently.’

‘So, can you suggest someone who can have a look?’

‘We’ll leave you a list of approved contractors. They’ll have to put up scaffolding first to be able to look properly. It won’t be cheap.’ The older man had spoken and he almost sounded pleased. Amber’s urge to slap him increased. She screwed her hands into fists.

‘No problem,’ she said airily, ‘there’ll be insurance to cover it,’ whilst fervently hoping her assumption was correct.

Within two days, Kenny Clarke, a specialist restoration builder together with his son Pete arrived with a lorry load of scaffolding. It was stacked up outside the house for three days whilst they, and what felt like a dozen scaffolders, banged and crashed, whistled, laughed and shouted as they slowly erected a huge metal cage around the tower. Amber tried to hide in the office, having realised on day one that if she was spotted in the kitchen, someone would appear at the back door with their tray of mugs and a hopeful smile. It was usually Pete, who had intensely blue eyes that sparkled every time he grinned. There were no prizes for guessing why the other workers always sent him to ask for cups of tea, although when she’d tried to engage him in conversation, she’d discovered that behind his rugged good looks he was very shy.

Now, sat in front of her laptop, a pile of dusty, worn 1950s detective novels on the desk beside her, she couldn’t concentrate. The room felt wrong; however, she couldn’t put her finger on what was different. As far as she could see none of the furniture had been moved and given the depth of the dust that covered everything, it would be easy to spot if any of the ornaments had been altered. In fact, there was something odd right through the house and whatever it was, she could feel it most strongly in the library, at the base of the tower. With the poor light from the small windows now obscured even further by the myriad of scaffold poles, the room felt strange, edgy. As if it wasn’t happy with the work going on outside, which was a ridiculous notion she told herself. Nevertheless the atmosphere had been disturbed and sometimes she was certain someone was watching her, although a quick check of the room proved what she already knew – she was on her own.

Within hours of the two men starting their investigations, Kenny was at the back door, carrying a small package, and asking if he could speak with her and Grandad. His usual joviality had abandoned him, and after inviting him into the kitchen and offering him a chair at the table, she went through to find her grandfather.

‘It’s a lot worse than I could see from the ground,’ he began as soon as they were all sat down with yet another cup of tea. ‘There’s some major structural work that needs to be undertaken. The crack we spotted is bigger than I first thought and will carry on crawling down the tower wall until the whole corner shears away and it’ll all come tumbling down. The window frame is so loose we had to remove it before it fell out and all that ancient glass got broken. Pete found this on the window ledge.’ He put the package he was carrying on the table in front of Amber.

Even before she picked it up she knew it was something special and a sharp tingle crawled along her arms, making the hairs stand up. A small rectangular block, roughly wrapped in a clump of embroidered brown linen, frayed at the edges. It was enveloped in a musty smell, with a whisper of spice and incense, reminding Amber momentarily of her and Jonathan’s home and his ancient church next door. As she held it in her hands, she could feel the air around her shiver and distort for a moment. Sliding it onto her lap she tried to listen to the conversation between the other two. Whatever was contained in the old piece of cloth had piqued her interest, but she wanted to look at it when she was on her own.

Following further discussions about the work needed, and despatching Kenny back outside with more tea and some chocolate cake for both him and Pete, Amber went to her office, holding the package tightly against her chest. Laying it on the desk, she gently lifted away the linen wrapping, now yellowed and brown with age and darker still in patches. As she began to unwrap it, her senses were alerted to the pungent, evocative scent of decrepit books and bitter herbs that washed over her and she closed her eyes for a moment. It infiltrated the room like a spirit, there, but not there.

The perfumed air reminded her momentarily of Jonathan and his church. Of his ordination and the soaring voices of the choirboys as they sung the ‘Ubi Caritas’, the words spinning across the vaulted ceiling in veneration, while her husband in his black robes lay spread-eagled on the floor that vibrated with the deep powerful notes from the organ. The coloured light streaming in from the stained glass windows shone through the smoke from the incense, creating a misty rainbow. She’d never understood his intense passion for theology and his absolute rock-solid belief in his faith, but now, she wished more than anything she also had that rock to cling to, and save her. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the faint fragrance settle on her. It was underpinned by a sharp, almost metallic tang of a pungent spice she couldn’t place.

Amber turned the fabric over in her hands, examining the heavy embroidery. It looked ancient. Unwrapping it carefully, she lifted it away from the object it covered. She drew her breath in sharply, realising with a shock what she was holding. A tiny leather-bound prayer book, its thick cover enclosing gossamer-thin pages.

Inside the front cover, surrounded by coloured illuminations, exquisite religious illustrations still as bright as the day they were completed, and written in an old English styling that made Amber screw her eyes up, it read:

Sir Greville Richard Lutton, born June 1508

Eleanor Lutton, born 29 November in the year of our Lord 1520

Beneath, in a similar vein and with decoration, was written:

Jane Elizabeth Lutton born 7 August 1534

Henry Greville Lutton born 15 May 1539

A further entry, less illustrious simply said:

Thomas Lutton July 1539

Below the entry for Thomas, it read:

Mary, safe in the arms of our Lord, 17 November 1541

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa

She swallowed hard. It appeared Mary, just like her own daughter, her tiny Saffron, had not survived her birth. The absolute worst experience that any parent could go through. A pain etched on her heart forever. And why had the author of those words added Mea culpa? How could she possibly think it was her own fault? Although Amber knew exactly how that felt, the all-consuming guilt. Opposite the frontispiece, that first page with the list of births, something else was written in Latin, but scrawled untidily as if written quickly, with none of the artwork that decorated the other page. Amber’s eyes caught on the first line, which, she was pleased that due to her profession, she was able to translate.

infans filia sub pedibus nostris requiescit

‘A baby daughter lies beneath our feet’

What did the inscription mean? Was it an epitaph to Mary? She could feel her heart beating harder. It was as if the book had found her, had been waiting in the tower for her to be united with it. She and Eleanor, the original owner hundreds of years ago, had a connection through the most painful of reasons, two mothers grieving. Her suspicions were confirmed: this book was definitely very old. Had it been here in Saffron Hall all the time?

Although the house was a fraction of the size it once was, she knew from the records and research already done that in medieval times it had once been a sizeable castle. A book of hours, a small personal prayer book such as this scribed by hand and not printed, probably dated from the fifteenth century, maybe even earlier. It must have been very special to Eleanor. What a find. The air around her crackled and for a moment she thought she’d heard a whisper as the fabric of the building sighed and shifted slightly, almost in anticipation. She was desperate to decipher the rest of the Latin passage, to discover if it referred to Mary.

Chapter Four

1538

‘Sir William has asked to see you,’ Joan announced breathlessly as she hurried into Eleanor’s bedroom, where she’d been hiding for most of the day, playing cards and watching the relentless rain outside as it threw itself against the window, as if demanding entry. She slapped another card down on the table.

‘Why?’ She didn’t raise her head. Since her cousin arrived a week ago there had been much coming and going of people she hadn’t seen before, but nobody had bothered her. She’d hoped they’d forgotten she was there, but evidently not.

Joan shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, flapping her arms as if to make her companion move with more haste, ‘but it was more of a demand than a request, so best not to keep him waiting. You know how important it is to us both to keep on the right side of him. We are now here as his guests; we no longer have any rights.’

Eleanor tucked the wayward strands of her thick unruly auburn hair under her linen coif and pushed her feet into soft leather slippers, before walking down to the great hall, her steps measured and steady. There was no need to fear a meeting with her cousin, she told herself, although every hair on her skin prickled in trepidation and her shaky breathing belied her external confidence. Joan had spoken wise words: they were now at the mercy of her cousin and although she hated the situation, she needed to remember that. She sensed a tension in the air as if everybody was poised and listening, waiting for something dreadful to happen, and she didn’t like it.

She found her cousin sitting before the fire with Lady Margaret. At the other end of the room, platters were being laid out on the table for dinner, and her stomach rumbled loudly. Since everyone had arrived she’d chosen to eat in the kitchen after mealtimes rather than in the great hall, and usually there was little remaining decent food by the time she got to eat. The sharp scent of burnt fat and roasting meat wafted across the vast room towards them, making her salivate.

Eleanor dropped a brief curtsey and stood waiting for William to speak, her eyes staring at the floor.

He twitched his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Eleanor, finally you honour us with your presence.’

She couldn’t think of a response, doubting he’d actually noticed that other than mass she was absent as often as she could be, so she kept her lips pressed shut and said nothing. He sat in her father’s favourite chair, and Eleanor bit down on the inside of her mouth to stop fierce tears from welling up as he indicated the stool beside him and she sank down onto it. The rushes, the dried grasses strewn on the flagstones for cleanliness close to where he sat were damp from spilled ale and beginning to smell. Eleanor couldn’t help screwing up her nose in disgust. Her father had always been meticulous about keeping the grasses and lavender dry and fresh, smelling sweet, and it relieved her he was no longer there to see what was happening to their home. William cleared his throat loudly, and she was pleased to see even Margaret winced at the disgusting sound.

‘Eleanor, my son Robert will arrive within the week. It’s just what this house needs, a family to fill it. You understand that it’s no longer your home.’

She opened her mouth to point out he was now the closest family that she had, then shut it again, without saying a word. She could tell by the tone of his voice she was an inconvenience to be disposed of as soon as it was possible. Just as she’d suspected. The convent loomed large on the horizon.

‘Luckily for you, I have made an agreement for you to marry Sir Greville Lutton. He is a rich merchant and courtier with extensive lands in Norfolk and is prepared to take you, despite the lack of dowry left by your father.’

Aghast, Eleanor didn’t open her mouth to argue, shocked into silence. She sat unmoving and not breathing for a few seconds. Marry? Her? And who was this Sir Greville Lutton he spoke of?

She knew plenty of girls were wed by the age of seventeen, but she expected to be consulted, given a choice as her station dictated, as her father would have wanted. As a baron who distinguished himself at the Battle of Flodden and had later been appointed the high sheriff, he would have expected to do this for her. If he hadn’t died so suddenly. To her astonishment Sir William waved to a man on the periphery of a group at the other end of the hall who got to his feet and strode over until he stood in front of Eleanor, and then bowed deeply. He was here, now?

‘Cousin Eleanor, Sir Greville Lutton.’ William made the introductions as if he were supremely proud of himself. He probably was, having successfully rid himself of a relative cluttering up his new home. She looked up at the stranger. He was considerably taller than William and slimmer, with strong, broad shoulders. His dark hair was clipped short as was his beard, and he looked at her with concern. Lines fanned away from his dark brown eyes, and she could just about make out heavy eyebrows. He looked considerably older than she was.

William and Margaret made a big show of disappearing to join their friends for dinner, but suddenly Eleanor’s appetite had deserted her. Instead she thought she may well vomit at any moment. Greville sat in the seat William had just vacated and leant forwards, his forearms resting on his knees. His jerkin, doublet and hose were entirely in black, giving him a menacing look.

‘I know this is a shock for you.’ His voice was deep but surprisingly gentle and cultured. More like her father’s than her cousin’s. ‘But you have nothing to fear. I can give you a safe home, and a good life. I’m a widower and I have a young daughter, Jane. She’s almost three years old and lives at my home in Norfolk. After we are wed I will take you there, and I hope you’ll grow to love it as much as I do. Unfortunately I’m unable to spend as much time there as I would like. I have trade to attend to in London. I have a successful business importing fabrics and spices from the Far East, and I must spend time at court.’

His words washed over her and she took in nothing. This stranger was to be her husband and she had no say in the matter. Nobody cared if she wanted to marry him or not. Eventually she blurted out the question most prevalent in her mind. ‘How old are you, sir?’

He chuckled deep in his throat. ‘I’m twenty-nine years old,’ he replied. ‘I was married to my late wife at the age of twenty-four. She died giving birth to Jane. Now, I need a new wife to run my house and give me sons. You are …’ He paused and ran his eyes over her slight figure in her dress cut from drab brown fustian, deliberately worn to render her almost invisible amongst the finely dressed visitors, huddled desolately before him. ‘You are younger than I would have preferred, given that I have a house and estate to be managed in my absence, but I suspect you are stronger than you look. And you have organised this house for your father, so you will do very well. Tomorrow I’ll visit the prior and request the banns are read, and we will be married in three weeks. I’ll have just enough time to accompany you to Milfleet before I must return to court. And now, dinner.’ He got to his feet and offered his arm to her.

Eleanor shook her head. ‘I do not wish to eat, thank you, sir.’ She kept her voice cool, but even she could hear the wobble of distress in it. Standing up slowly and keeping her back straight, she walked carefully, sedately, to the stairs and the sanctuary of her bedroom.

Chapter Five

1538

In the early morning darkness, the glowing embers from the fireplace cast a burnished copper glow around the room. Eleanor knew if she called across to Joan, asleep on her truckle bed in the corner of the room, she’d immediately build the fire back up again, but Eleanor wasn’t cold. Indeed, her anger burned inside as hot as any furnace. Moving to the window, she sat on the seat, pulling the heavy drapes out of the way. She leant her forehead on the cool glass and watched an owl flying silent and low across the meadow before swooping momentarily out of sight then reappearing to perch in one of the many oak trees scattered across the park. This was her world, the only place she’d ever known. And today was her wedding day.

She knew where Norfolk, her new home, was – not far from her native Suffolk. With frightening tales her father told of its windswept boggy pastures and wild fenlands though, it may as well be the other side of the country, because tomorrow when she left Ixworth there would be no coming back. Sir William wasn’t preventing her from taking Joan with her, but everyone else in her life would be left behind: the servants and the quiet monks with their gentle lives, many of whom she considered her dear friends. Her father was gone and now her life here was over.

When dawn began to bleach the sky, the sun a red ball hanging low and steady, shimmering on the horizon, she was still sitting on the window seat. Through the house came the sounds of fires being lit and the preparation for the wedding feast later. She’d barely seen her betrothed since their initial introduction; he’d spent most of his time out hunting with the other guests. No doubt they were all keen to escape the house and the furious yelling of young Robert, who’d arrived ten days previously and had made his presence known, day and night. There was nowhere in the hall to escape the baby’s constant angry shouting. Sir William merely laughed, then absconded for the day on his horse. No wonder his wife had a permanent scowl; she probably had a headache as well. At least when he and Margaret were at court she could get away from the din. Here at Ixworth it was far more difficult.

Joan appeared silently at her door carrying a bowl containing steaming water with floating rose petals and, after Eleanor had finished washing, she helped her to dress before they both slipped away to the priory for matins. In her heart, Eleanor knew she’d miss this the most.

Kneeling on the cold stone floor, her eyes closed, she was conscious of Joan’s steady breathing beside her as the familiar Latin prayers washed over her, their responses murmured automatically, her fingers clicking through her beads as she allowed her mind to drift. Was Joan as worried as she, at the upheaval in their lives? Her cousin had readily agreed when Eleanor had insisted her companion came with her. But for Joan this was nothing new – she’d come from her own family, distant relatives of Eleanor’s mother – to be her confidante as it was deemed Eleanor was in need of gentle female company. Although Joan was the quieter of the two, Eleanor knew her friend had an inner strength she rarely revealed, which would help them both in the new life they were about to begin.

But Ixworth wasn’t Joan’s home, and she wasn’t about to become someone’s wife, with all that would entail. Eleanor swallowed hard. She knew what was expected in the marriage bed, and Greville was not a boy of her own age. He’d have expectations – she had no doubt about that. So no, answering her own question, Joan had very little to worry about.

The voices of the monks lifted in the final bars of the ‘Te Deum’ hymn soaring to the vaulted ceiling as the heavy, cloying scent of frankincense drifted through the nave and the service was over. She’d be back here in six hours, and she’d already been informed they would leave for Norfolk early the next morning. This was it, the final time she’d be alone to say her farewells.

‘You go,’ she said, ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

Joan looked unsure. Did she think Eleanor was going to run away? If there was somewhere else to go, she’d have already gone.

‘I want to say my goodbyes now,’ she added.

Joan’s face cleared and she smiled gently, nodding. She gave Eleanor’s arm a slight squeeze. ‘We need to finish packing the last of your belongings,’ she reminded her.

‘I’ve not forgotten – I’ll be back in plenty of time. It’s going to be a long day.’

Joan disappeared through the chapel door, leaving Eleanor sitting silently in the shadowy morning half-light at the back. By this point the brothers had all dispersed to their chores with just two remaining, snuffing out candles and cleaning the sacraments. Their movements were fluid as if they were contained in an ancient religious dance, their rough wool habits sighing against the floor the only sound they made. Finally they too left and she was alone, with the solitude and silence that enveloped her a comforting, familiar blanket. But she had little time to pause and appreciate. Her time had run out.

Outside, after a brief visit to her parents’ grave – there were no goodbyes here; she missed them, but had accepted they were gone forever – she carried on until she reached the priory’s physic garden. Carefully laid out in sections splayed out like the rays of the sun from a central bed, each patch contained herbs to cure ailments for a different part of the body. Behind her a separate bed held the plants needed to create dyes for the colourful inks the monks used. As if he were expecting her, the prior was already there, gently pulling the tops from new shoots on a feverfew bush. He straightened and smiled as he saw her, and they walked together to a wooden bench set against the stone wall of the garden. It was a seat her father used to rest on when watching her helping the monks in the garden. Or on the many days she was inside with the scribes watching and copying their painstakingly intricate illuminated texts.

The pair sat in companionable silence for a few minutes until finally he asked, ‘Are you ready for your wedding and the next part of your journey?’

Eleanor shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I shall miss being here so much. But nothing stays the same forever, does it?’ She managed a small smile as if she was trying to reassure him and not herself, and his old hand, the veins bulging and the skin paper-thin, patted hers.

‘You speak wise words. Even here in our pious solitude where nothing has altered for centuries, the bells of change may soon be chiming at our gates,’ he replied. She knew he was talking about the king’s commissioners who were closing down monasteries. Nobody knew where they may turn up next. An air of constant apprehension and dread hung over them, clinging silently to the fabric of their lives. ‘Now,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I have a gift for you. Not a wedding present, but something especially for you. Come with me.’ Getting shakily to his feet, he led the way to a wooden shelter propped against the opposite wall, which contained the monks’ gardening tools. Reaching inside, he withdrew a sturdy carved wooden coffer and placed it into her hands. It was heavy and Eleanor put it onto the ground so she could open it and peer inside. It appeared to be full of tiny gnarled onions. She looked questioningly at him.

‘Crocus bulbs,’ he told her, ‘so you may grow your own saffron at your new home. You’ve seen how we cultivate it here in our stand, you’ve helped many times with the harvest and the drying, and you appreciate the value the saffron has, both in monetary terms and in its uses. These are your dowry from the priory.’ He looked down at her and smiled gently. The smile of a father to a daughter he’d never had.

‘Thank you, this is so kind of you. These are very precious to me.’ Shutting the lid, she left the box at her feet, dropping to one knee and kissing the ring on his hand. ‘You’ll be forever in my thoughts,’ she promised him, before gathering up her gift and leaving the garden. Determined not to look back, her vision was hampered by the tears in her eyes.

The rest of the morning passed quickly. The smells and noises from the kitchens confirmed how excited the servants were to finally have a happy occasion to prepare for, after the sadness of the previous months. The wedding was a cause of celebration for them, if not for Eleanor, and they were determined to give her an impressive nuptial feast. They had spent days cooking swan, gosling and boar, the cool larder shelves filled with fruit preserves, sweet pastries, tarts and custards together with a magnificent cake.

In her room, with their last chest laid open for the final pieces to be packed, Eleanor sat mutely while Joan decorated her hair. For once it was uncovered, with flowers and pearls wound into the tight, uncomfortable braids against her head. Finally the fine lawn veil, which had been worn by her mother, was pinned on her head. Already she was hurting, in her thoughts and her heart. She wore her best dress, a muted pale blue wool, the perfect foil for the blaze of her hair glowing as if it were alight. Her eyes kept straying towards the bed behind her, the curtains drawn back displaying the embroidered coverlet her mother had sewn during the early years of her marriage before Eleanor’s arrival. Her father had often assured her how delighted her mother had been to be having a baby.

Only a few days previously, Lady Margaret had swept into her bedroom uninvited, and inspected the furniture and layout, explaining she would be using the room after Eleanor had left. She’d sneered slightly as she fingered the covers and Eleanor had decided immediately that whatever else was packed into her luggage, the bedcover was coming with her. Already, the room no longer felt like her own, and tonight her husband would be joining her in that bed. She shuddered and Joan tutted as a hairpin fell to the floor.

‘Keep still,’ she scolded.

Eventually, she couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. Downstairs the previous noise and raucous commotion had abated, the household having already left to line her route to the chapel. The house was silent and Eleanor could hear every shaky breath she took as her heart pounded hard in her chest, a fine sheen of sweat beading on her forehead and sticking the veil to her face.

If she’d been praying for divine intervention, now was the moment she acknowledged that God had let her down. Badly. Prior Gregory had often told her that some things, such as her father’s death, were a part of the Lord’s great plan, but it was difficult to understand how the Lord thought this was going to improve her life.

‘Do not look so despondent,’ Joan reassured her, as she handed over a small posy of lavender, which Eleanor tucked into her kirtle beneath her gown. ‘Many girls would be delighted to have a handsome husband and a new home awaiting them.’

Eleanor looked at her friend sharply, suddenly appreciating that in Joan’s eyes she had more than she deserved, although even this realisation couldn’t lift her black mood.

Joan walked in front of her, holding aloft a branch of rosemary, and Eleanor followed slowly, her legs unsteady but with her shoulders back and her head held high as they approached the church. Everyone from the hall was crowded outside waiting, including the servants she’d known all her life, her cousin’s guests and of course, William and Margaret. As if their presence would ensure she went through with the marriage. Which she would. She was too much of a coward to run away, or take herself off to a convent. Stood at the heavy wooden door was the prior, together with Greville, dressed in his customary black but this time with flashes of deep, rich scarlet from the inserts in his doublet sleeves. His dark eyes met hers and he smiled encouragingly. Eleanor, still quaking, lowered her eyes and stared at his shining leather boots, so big compared to her small slippered feet.

The ceremony words washed over her bowed head and within minutes it was all over. A heavy gold ring studded with emeralds and rubies was slipped onto her finger and together they stepped inside the church for the wedding mass. Greville offered her his arm and although she wanted to shun him, Eleanor leant on it until she could sink onto her shaking knees. No longer could she occupy the front pew, the family space now taken by her cousin as she and Greville knelt before the altar.

For once, the familiarity of the mass was of no comfort to her and she went through the motions in a daze. That was it. She was married to a man who was a stranger, and tomorrow she’d be leaving the only home she’d ever known. And tonight was her wedding night. Her insides constricted painfully.

Suddenly the service was all over and they were back outside, followed by the rest of the party who were in a buoyant mood as they returned to the hall in the cool afternoon as twilight crept in. Inside, platter after platter of roasted meats, vegetables and sweets were brought out to the guests. The air filled with raised voices as the ale and wine flowed freely. Eleanor would have been surprised at the generosity of her cousin in providing such a feast, but Cook had already told her Greville had paid for everything. She toyed with a piece of manchet, the best white bread that Cook could make, pulling it into crumbs. Her hand felt strange and uncomfortable with the weight of the band of gold now sitting on her third finger. Greville kept putting fine slivers of meat on her plate, but she slid them off and onto the floor where the dogs sat under the table, making short work of them.

Finally a large cake made of marchpane studded with coloured comfits Eleanor had helped make was brought in, and the celebrations dissolved into drunk, unruly partying. Someone was playing a lute, the noise increasing the more wine was consumed. Eventually the moment she’d been dreading arrived as the revellers began to insist the bride and groom were taken to their wedding bed. Good-naturedly, Greville got to his feet and held out his hand to Eleanor, almost lifting her from her seat. As if he could sense the reluctance that was emanating from her in waves, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze in reassurance.

He led her upstairs and the rest of the guests followed, jostling them forwards and shouting ribald suggestions which, she noticed, her husband frowned at rather than joining in. The party tumbled into the bedroom still singing loudly, but to their surprise Greville held his hands up to quieten them – Eleanor could see that his height and wide shoulders had definite advantages – and announced they could all continue celebrating downstairs because he didn’t require any further assistance in the bedchamber.

The response was not polite as he ushered, and in some cases manhandled the disappointed guests from the room until finally, just the two of them were left. He threw another log onto the already blazing fire, causing sparks to splutter up the chimney and the flames to rear up, lighting one side of his face. In that brief moment, he looked like Beelzebub himself and Eleanor resisted the temptation to cross herself. Walking around the room he lit the candles in their sconces while Eleanor stood motionless watching his every move, like a rabbit suddenly spotted by a fox. Joan had left with everyone else and she wondered how she was going to undress on her own.

Silently she began to unlace her sleeves. She felt, rather than saw, Greville move behind her and she paused, holding her breath before recoiling as his fingers wound in her hair, gently removing the pins that had kept it firmly braided to her scalp all day. The flowers, now wilted and limp, scattered across the floor. With two deft pulls of the laces at her back, her gown was loose enough to step out of and Greville laid it over the open chest, still awaiting the last pieces to be packed. Eleanor took off her kirtle and stood in her linen shift, shivering despite the blazing fire and watching his every move.

Her new husband removed his boots and hose, his slim legs looking long and pale in the firelight. He threw his doublet carelessly on top of her dress and within seconds he too stood in his smock, which mercifully came down to his knees. Eleanor averted her gaze, just in case. Lifting the bedcovers back he gave her an encouraging smile before indicating that she should get into bed. She darted across and slipped between the cool linen sheets, pulling them up to her neck, and lay down with her eyes closed, awaiting the dip of the mattress as he climbed in beside her. It didn’t happen. Instead, she felt the weight of the blankets on her legs shift, and peeping out from beneath her eyelids, she saw Greville struggling with her coverlet as he pulled it from the bed. What was he doing?

She watched through half-closed eyes as he continued to wrestle with it until it was pooled on the floor.

‘I know you’re watching me,’ he remarked, and reluctantly she opened her eyes properly.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked finally as he wrapped the blanket around himself. Not before she’d seen his muscular thighs as they disappeared underneath the coverlet. She looked away quickly. He settled himself in the chair beside the fire, his face shining in the firelight. His dark eyes met hers.

‘Go to sleep,’ he told her. ‘We’ve got a very long journey over the next few days. I want as few stops as possible on the way home.’ And with that, he blew out the last candle, leaving just the dull glow from the few embers in the fireplace.

Eleanor rolled onto her back and gazed up at the canopy above her. She knew what was expected of her on her wedding night, and it definitely wasn’t lying here in her bed on her own. She cleared her throat.

‘Why are you sleeping in the chair?’

‘I just told you. We have a long day tomorrow and we’ll be gone at first light. Are all your belongings packed?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘apart from the blanket you’re wrapped in. My mother embroidered it for me before I was born, and I’m not leaving it for Lady Margaret. Apparently she’s using this room when I’ve gone.’ He still hadn’t answered her question though. ‘But, aren’t you supposed to sleep in the bed with me now we’re married?’

She heard him chuckle. ‘It’s late and we’ve both had a long day. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us. One night …’ he paused for a moment ‘… however many nights, won’t make a deal of difference. Now, do as you are told. Sleep.’

Astonished, Eleanor rolled onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging them against her as she lay in the dark, her eyes wide open. She hadn’t been expecting this on her wedding night. All day she’d worried about what would happen in the bedroom and now, nothing. She couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief as well as surprise that she was lying in the bed on her own. But it was, she reminded herself, merely a stay of execution. From across the room came slow, measured breathing. It hadn’t taken him long to drop off and she needed to sleep as well, but the day’s celebrations – if they could be called that – were playing out in her head, turning over and over. She didn’t feel remotely tired, and tomorrow she would begin the journey to her new life, in Norfolk.

Chapter Six

1538

Eleanor must have finally fallen asleep, and before she knew it Greville was shaking her shoulder urging her to wake up. A fresh log on the fire was spitting and cracking, although the room was still in darkness. He was already dressed and had placed her folded coverlet on top of the remaining chest.

‘We need to be leaving,’ he told her. ‘I’ll call Joan. Do you want something to eat before we go?’ Eleanor shook her head and watched as he left the room, leaving the door ajar. She heard whispered voices outside and then Joan slipped in, lighting the candles around the room until it was flooded in soft light. She was wearing her travelling clothes and Eleanor wondered if she’d slept in them, given that she didn’t appear concerned by the early start.

Before long, Eleanor was also dressed in her warmest and most robust clothing for the journey ahead. They packed away the last few pieces of their belongings, with the rest of their clothes having already been sent ahead the previous week. Downstairs, the servants paused in their chores to say goodbye to the two women. Some of them had known Eleanor all her life and there were plenty of tears. Both for her and the quiet, devoted Joan. There was no sign of William or Margaret, and Eleanor’s own eyes filled as she took a last look around the great hall, still clothed in its night-time shadows. She imagined she saw the ghost of her father sat in his chair, smiling and nodding encouragingly at her, as if giving her permission to start this new chapter in her life. She was turning a page, a fresh start.

‘Goodbye, Papa,’ she whispered, as behind her she heard the clump of heavy boots approaching. Her husband took hold of her shoulders and turned her around, enveloped her in his strong arms and held her close for a moment. Her face was pressed against the rough wool of his cloak. He’d been striding in and out as the horses were being prepared and there was a layer of fine, early morning dew on him, making his short hair curl into tendrils against his neck and his clothes and skin damp. Eleanor pulled away.

‘Here, put your cloak on,’ he told her, swinging it round her back and fastening it at the front, ‘and we’ll be off. We’ve got a hard day ahead. Today is not a day for endings and farewells, but rather a time for new beginnings. Come.’ Taking her small hand in his much larger one, he led her outside where two horses waited, stamping their feet impatiently. She’d been expecting her own mount and she looked around for him.

‘Where’s my pony?’ she asked. ‘I’m not leaving him here.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s already gone on ahead. He left yesterday,’ he reassured her, ‘but you need something bigger and hardier for the long journey, so I had one of my horses brought from Milfleet.’ The beast he indicated was fine-looking, with strong lines and a wide sturdy body. It had a gentle face and was snorting quietly, small white clouds puffing out of its nostrils as she patted its soft nose. It was also huge, at least twice the size of her pony. At Greville’s behest she placed her shin in his cupped hands and he lifted her up and onto the horse’s broad back as if she weighed nothing at all. From her vantage point the ground seemed a long way down, and she wished she was perched on the end of the cart, with Joan.

Dawn was creeping slowly over the horizon, soft shards of light beginning to beckon them forwards. Behind her, the hall and the abbey beyond rose up in a dark silhouette against the skyline and, with a heavy heart, Eleanor kicked her horse forward. Greville followed behind as they rode out of the courtyard, and she willed herself not to look back.

The four-day journey to Milfleet was every bit as arduous and dreadful as Eleanor had suspected it would be. She could hardly blame Greville for misleading her as he had given her fair warning, but nevertheless her mood soured with every mile that passed. The landscape barely altered, a flat expanse of damp, boggy wilderness, rushes as far as the eye could see, broken up occasionally on higher ground by a few rough longhouses or shacks. At first Greville had kept up a running commentary, but as Eleanor’s face grew dark eventually he gave up, riding beside her in silence.

When they finally arrived, it was gone midnight. Twice Eleanor’s mount had stumbled in the dark, and once she had almost slid off the horse as she fought sleep. Her mood had not improved. The full moon had helped them keep to the narrow dusty track and now it shone down on the castle-like hall, behind which lay ponds, the water still and shining in the moonlight, like glass. Up ahead there was the sound of chains and men shouting as the huge wooden gates below a gatehouse opened to allow the party access to the courtyard beyond. It appeared to be full of people waiting for them.

Gratefully, Eleanor slid down from her horse, pausing momentarily as she felt Greville’s big hands around her waist steadying her. After so many hours in the saddle her legs were numb and frozen and without him there, she was sure she’d have stumbled. She kept her gaze steady, looking into his deep brown eyes surrounded by thick lashes she hadn’t noticed before, and tried not to show the fear that coursed through her veins. When he offered his arm she took it without a word, and he led her into the great hall.

Inside was bright with burning candles, every corner and alcove lit, and what looked like a dozen or so dogs, milling around everyone’s legs. They seemed delighted to see their master, pushing each other away as they shoved their heads against Greville, making him laugh loudly as he shepherded them out of the way.

The great hall was unlike anything Eleanor had ever seen or imagined, the huge space far eclipsing that of Ixworth. The ceiling soared up to elaborate decorations and carved beams, not the rough-cut ones she was familiar with, and even the candle sconces on the walls were ornamental. The walls were covered in thick, deep-piled tapestries depicting hunting scenes and Roman gods in battle. At one end of the room stood a long trestle table, bare of cloth, along which were glowing pewter candlesticks. It all seemed so huge in comparison to everything she was used to, and Eleanor felt small and insignificant. She wondered how she would ever live in this cathedral of a room; it was completely overwhelming. She began to realise her preconceived ideas of Greville’s home and his wealth and stature together with that of Norfolk in general, may have been incorrect. Despite Greville’s fine clothes and horses she had convinced herself that his home would be grim and austere with few trappings of luxury, echoing the landscape in which he lived.

Someone offered her a cup of ale, which she drank down quickly, not realising how thirsty she’d become. Joan appeared at her elbow and helped remove her travelling cloak. Without it she felt exposed and felt herself shiver, despite the huge fire that roared in the wide fireplace, taking up almost half a wall. She wrapped her arms around herself.

‘Are you cold?’ Greville asked, steering her towards the fire. ‘Stand here, where it’s warmer. Are you hungry?’

She shook her head.

‘Let me show you to your bedroom then. You can meet everyone tomorrow when you’re not so tired.’ Putting his arm around her body to guide her through the throngs of people – everyone who lived on the estate seemed to have turned up to meet his new bride despite the late hour – Eleanor found herself climbing a set of dark polished wood stairs, the finials and bannisters intricately carved into oak leaves and autumnal fruit, all shining like freshly exposed conkers. She spotted Joan following them, together with a large hairy hound that seemed rather attached to her, despite her frantic attempts to shoo it away. Greville just chuckled, seemingly unperturbed at the beast being upstairs.

Opening a door, he ushered them both into a bedroom, much larger than the one Eleanor had occupied at Ixworth. Here, another fire was blazing and Greville quickly lit the candles. One wall was hung with thick tapestries, the other three panelled with linen-fold wainscoting, which glowed in the firelight. He pulled aside a heavy curtain in one corner and indicated a large walk-in anteroom, which contained a bed, built into the wall.

‘There’s a bed here for Joan—’ he pointed, before indicating the opposite corner ‘—and through that door is my bedroom.’

Eleanor couldn’t even see where the panels ended and the door began, but her surprise at him having a separate bedroom was written all over her face. She’d anticipated that despite the long journey, he’d be expecting to share her bed tonight. It appeared she was wrong.

‘Before I leave you, I have a wedding gift for you.’

He went through the dividing door into his own room and reappeared seconds later carrying something small, which he placed in Eleanor’s hands. It was smooth, and had the faint tangy scent of treated skins. The sharp smell reminded her of sitting with the scribes in the abbey as they spent laborious hours writing texts and illuminating them with brilliantly coloured inks, and gold leaf. She’d often sat and practised alongside them with discarded quills and scraps of parchment or vellum that were no longer needed. She’d never have the steady hand or eye for detail they did, but she was able to complete passable, if rather naïve illustrations. It was an enjoyable way of spending the long winter days when bad weather could keep them confined for weeks at a time. And she’d acquired a lot of knowledge whilst chatting with them, learning from their experiences in the stillroom and infirmary. Her handwriting – with all the practice she’d had – was small and neat. A skill that would no doubt be useful when she was helping Greville.

She turned the object over, examining it carefully. A small, heavy book, it was barely larger than the size of her hand. The leather front had been tooled into elaborate patterns and swirls that looked like new ferns, curled around a crest, decorated with brilliant colours. She opened it slowly and looked inside at the Latin words inscribed within.

‘Is it a prayer book?’ she asked, delighted. ‘It’s beautiful, thank you.’

‘It is.’ He nodded. ‘A book of hours. See here, it has the stations of the cross.’ He showed her the richly illustrated images of the Good Friday journey and accompanying prayers. ‘And here—’ he turned to some other pages ‘—are saints days and feast days. It was my mother’s, given to her by my father on their wedding day. There are blank pages throughout the book. He had them added for her to write in anything she chose – her thoughts, or prayers. But she didn’t use them, so the book is still waiting for someone to make proper use of it. I hope that you’ll fulfil my father’s wishes.’

Eleanor smiled. She was certain she’d have no problem doing that.

‘This is your crest?’ she asked, touching the raised design on the front.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed, ‘and now it is yours, too. Given to my grandfather together with this hall, as thanks for his loyalty by Edward the Fourth. See here, there are bulrushes to denote the fenlands we live in, and also here, a heron. This is our family motto.’ Taking Eleanor’s hand, he ran her fingers over the Latin inscription at the bottom.

‘Dum Spiro Spero,’ she read. ‘While I breathe, I hope.’

‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘There are times in all our lives when everything appears bleak, or broken,’ he told her, ‘but we must never lose hope that things will get better again.’ He looked deep into her eyes as if he was searching her soul and reading what was written there. Maybe he understood more of her distress, how lost and alone she felt, than she gave him credit for. Eleanor gave herself a little shake, and tore her eyes away.

‘Thank you, I shall treasure it always,’ she told him.

‘In case you’re wondering, Jane’s mother had her own prayer book, which is why fortuitously I still have this one. I think you’ll find more use for it.’ His beard, always neat despite the long days of travelling, tickled as he bent to kiss her on the cheek, warm against her cold skin, and then he was gone.

Around the edges of the room were stacked the various chests that the two women had spent the past ten days packing, but Eleanor was too tired to find a night rail to sleep in. As soon as Joan had helped her undress, she crawled beneath the covers of her new bed in her shift and lay down wearily as Joan pulled the drapes around her. She didn’t hear the sounds of her companion sinking gratefully onto her own mattress, as she dropped into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Seven

2019

Amber’s phone pinged with the arrival of a text and glancing down at the screen she sighed, stabbing repeatedly at the power button in frustration until the screen finally went dark. What had begun as an occasional enquiry about her wellbeing was now beginning to feel slightly overbearing and uncomfortable. She knew Jonathan was worried, and she really needed to speak to him to allay his concerns. Not least because if she didn’t, he’d start calling the house phone to speak to Grandad, and it took the poor old man ten minutes just to get out of his armchair and stagger to the phone.

He wouldn’t leave her alone. She’d already explained on numerous occasions she hadn’t left him or bailed on their marriage, but she couldn’t be home with him at the vicarage at the moment. All that was there merely reminded her of what wasn’t there. He’d cleared out the nursery and put everything up in the loft thinking it would help, but in fact he’d made things worse. As if Saffron had never been. But she was a real person, their daughter. A surprise pregnancy after a course of antibiotics that resulted in her pill failing to work. Amber had been horrified when she’d first seen the two blue lines appear on the test. Jonathan as ever had been far more pragmatic and then within days he’d morphed from sensible, to wildly excited. It had taken Amber several months before she accepted what was happening and had begun to look forward to the new addition to their family and share in Jonathan’s mounting excitement. Now, she was crucified with guilt at her initial lack of happiness.

Amber knew if she stood at the window in the now empty nursery, she could see across to the graveyard to where her baby lay. Jonathan found it a comfort being so near; he visited the grave every morning before he unlocked the church. She’d seen him from the window, his lips moving as he talked to their daughter. Or maybe he was praying. She couldn’t ask because she didn’t want to admit she’d been watching him. At first she’d drifted around the vicarage in a fog, unable to concentrate on anything. Picking up books and putting them back down, unread. Making cups of tea she wouldn’t drink. Until after a couple of months, she knew she had to find somewhere she could breathe again. A familiar place that was calling her home.

It was only a ninety-minute drive home from Grandad’s and initially she’d agreed to return home at weekends, but that had soon petered out. Jonathan was always working on Sundays and usually prepping for services the day before, and it was a long way to drive just to cook a roast dinner and spend little time together.

And now that he wasn’t able to monitor her physical and mental decline in person, he’d taken to texting several times a week. She’d persuaded him it was better if she rang him at a convenient time so she didn’t disturb Grandad, but the text messages were now increasing. All she wanted was some peace to breathe, and to grieve for her daughter in the way she felt able to.

Grandad was taking his morning stroll, although Amber had discovered this actually meant walking from the back door to his greenhouse. He sat in there on his gardening stool every day, whatever the weather, looking out over his extensive vegetable plot, which was now completely overrun with weeds. The troublesome unruly plants had grown, for as long as she could remember, throughout the carefully regimented beds from which over the years he’d nurtured enough vegetables to feed the entire British Army. Against the pale brick of the walled garden, espaliered fig trees still produced buckets of fruit every year, most of which lay on the floor, a feast for insects before the autumn rains rendered them down into a sticky molasses of compost.

But he wasn’t able to do the physical labour any longer. She knew he hated the weakness he’d been left with following his stroke, and she doubted he’d ever really accept the way things were now. He still made plans of things to do when he was well again, and she hadn’t the heart to tell him that day may never come.

Taking advantage of having the house to herself and knowing she ought to return Jonathan’s messages, Amber switched her phone back on and walked through the house to find somewhere she could get a decent signal. It was definitely better at the front of the house, but even then it wasn’t brilliant. She’d once suggested to Grandad that she climb the tower to find a decent signal, but he’d been vehement in his response, shocking her. And now with the scaffolding up it was structurally unsafe and the door to the stairs remained, as it had always been, locked. Nothing would dissuade him from his decision. He admitted it had been inaccessible for as long as he could remember and nobody knew where the key was, but she was certain there was more he wasn’t telling her.

The library, however, was the best room for a phone signal. It wasn’t a place she normally frequented, with the ancient leaded windowpanes letting in dozens of minuscule draughts. Little freezing stabbing knives. That was the problem with a listed building such as Saffron Hall: nothing could be replaced, so no chance of sensible and efficient double glazing, and the family had to live with the consequential cold. No wonder that in the winter Grandad sat in the gloom most of the day with the thick old curtains drawn to keep the heat in.

Her phone finally locked on to the weak signal and buzzed at her. Looking at the screen, she discovered not one but four texts and a missed call from Jonathan.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ she muttered scrolling down the texts. They started politely enquiring about her health and asking if they could chat, but by the fourth it said starkly, CALL ME, AMBER, JUST BLOODY CALL ME. He might be iffy about taking the Lord’s name in vain, but Jonathan was not particular about swearing if he thought the occasion deserved it. Pressing his name in her recent call log – in fact the only name in her call log – she held the phone against her ear, listening to the noise as it connected and imagining him sitting in his study and snatching his phone up, almost dropping it in his hurry to answer it. Jonathan had an A level in clumsiness.

‘Hi, Amber?’ He sounded breathless.

‘Yes, just me. Is this a good time?’ She picked up a discarded pen from the sideboard beside her and started clicking the lid on and off, on and off.

‘Of course, yes. I was just cutting some of the last dahlias to give to the women on the flower rota this week. They’re a bit windblown but they’ll do. The flowers I mean, not the volunteers. Sorry, I’m rambling. How are you?’ His voice tailed away and she felt compelled to fill the silence she knew would stretch between them until she spoke. She could visualise him, his eyes darting around as if that would help him find the words to say.

They had been such a great partnership from the first time they met when she’d been unlocking her bicycle outside her digs in Cambridge and he was stood there unlocking his own. He had immediately made a favourable comment about her brilliant yellow Doc Martens boots, although she didn’t explain until much later the connection between the vibrant hue of her footwear and the name of her ancestral home. Grandad had bought them for her eighteenth birthday and she adored them. It hadn’t taken long for her to feel warm listening to his deep melodic voice, and she’d invited him to a gig that some friends were playing at in the college bar that evening. Since that day they’d never had a moment when they couldn’t think of something to say to each other. Until now.

‘Oh well, you know, much the same as usual. Still working hard on Grandad’s books.’ She went on to explain about the recent damage to the tower. ‘There hasn’t been much time to do anything else. I’ve been out for a walk when it’s sunny, but that doesn’t happen very often.’

‘Yes the weather’s been much the same here.’ They could both get a qualification in small talk.

‘How about you? Anything exciting in Little Walpole?’

‘Well, there is something I want to tell you, which is why I wanted to speak with you, instead of the infernal texting. This is something that needs to be said out loud.’

For a second Amber’s heart beat wildly in her chest and sharp prickles of heat crawled across her face despite the cold draught from the window. Jonathan rarely had anything important to tell her. Had he got fed up waiting for her to go back to her old self, the Amber she used to be? Was he calling time on her retreat, or on her and their marriage? It had originally been her suggestion she took some time out and went to stay with her grandfather, to clear her head. He hadn’t been keen on the idea, but when Grandad suggested she could catalogue his book collection, Jonathan had wavered and eventually agreed that maybe it would help.

She realised she’d missed his first few words as she tried to tune in again to what he was saying.

‘… So I didn’t think you’d mind if we went ahead and had it erected. Tony came yesterday afternoon and I helped him do it. It felt important to me I was involved, for Saffron. And it looks just right. I think you’ll be happy with it. The Yeats you chose is absolutely perfect.’

Amber realised with a jolt he was talking about the headstone for Saffron’s grave. It felt so long ago they’d chosen it, she’d forgotten it still needed to be put in place. Her eyes smarted as the familiar tears welled up and rolled down her face. The view from the window, the expanse of flat fields beneath the sorrowful wet sky blurred into a wobbly tableau of grey and sepia like an Impressionist painting.

‘I hadn’t realised it would be finished yet,’ she admitted, sniffing loudly, ‘or the ground already settled.’

‘Will you come home and see it? I think it’ll help. I know it has for me. It’s more permanent and a proper symbol she was here. It’s telling the world we had – have – a daughter.’

‘Yes of course, I’d like that,’ Amber replied. She could almost hear the smile on Jonathan’s face as if he’d been expecting a different answer. He suggested a day the following week when he had no work and they could have lunch as well. Amber winced. She didn’t think she could face the hours of idle chitchat he’d expect. She wasn’t the same person anymore; she’d changed forever. If only Jonathan could realise that. Grandad was used to a quiet life and rarely indulged in aimless chatting, so since arriving her ability to conduct lengthy mindless conversations had dwindled to almost nothing. She agreed reluctantly she’d meet him at the vicarage late morning on the day he’d suggested, before ringing off.

Saffron’s headstone. It all felt so final as if everyone else, Jonathan included, was moving on. Except she couldn’t. She was flailing in her own personal purgatory. A pause between her life and no life, just the darkness she inhabited every day. They still didn’t have any official explanation as to why their precious daughter’s heart had stopped beating. One day everything had been fine, she was a week overdue, the baby was kicking well and the next, nothing. It had been several hours before she’d realised she had felt no movements. If only she’d noticed earlier and gone to the hospital then, they might have been able to do something. Her fault, it was all her fault.

The stillness surrounding them when the doctor looked up from the scan machine and told them there was no heartbeat. That their baby was dead. A gaping silence sucking the air out of the room and leaving them in a vacuum as they processed the information. Then there was a rushing in her ears, a roaring noise that she realised was coming out of her mouth, but she didn’t know how to silence it. And that sound might now be internal, but she still couldn’t make it stop.

Amber slumped against the window frame and shut her eyes. It was her fault that instead of being on maternity leave with her beautiful daughter, she was on a year’s sabbatical, compassionate leave while she tried to learn how to live this new life. The one with a huge cavernous hole in it, because she hadn’t insisted the doctors induce the birth as soon as her due date came and went. While Saffron was still alive. For accepting the medical assurances that anything up to ten days late was perfectly safe. But seven days later they’d discovered it wasn’t.

Running her fingers through her short hair she gripped them into fists, pulling the hair taut but not feeling the pain. She was numb, icy; she couldn’t see a way to ever feel normal again. As she rubbed the heels of her hands hard into her eyes she smeared the wet and salt down her face, and shivered. The room felt even colder than before. As she turned towards the door, she stilled. There was a shift in the air. A momentary feeling she wasn’t alone in the room, and yet she could clearly see she was. It was similar to the way her arms ached sometimes because she was sure she could feel the weight of Saffron lying in them, but she knew it was impossible. They were empty.

It felt so real that someone had been in the room with her for a brief moment. And there was just a hint of a strange smell. Honey, and something metallic. Was she starting to lose her mind? She’d had some counselling after Saffron and was told that with grief, anything was possible. It was simply her addled brain playing tricks on her, wasn’t it?

Chapter Eight

2019

‘What time are you leaving?’ Grandad asked.

‘About ten o’clock I think. Traffic will be slow if this weather doesn’t ease off.’

‘Don’t worry about dinner this evening if you want to stay at home with Jonathan. There’s plenty in the freezer for me.’ Carefully he scooped a blob of marmalade out of the jar with his knife, and they both watched its unsteady journey to his toast.

‘No, I’ll definitely be back. I only agreed to lunch because by mid-afternoon I can be on my return journey. Jonathan knows I don’t enjoy driving in the dark. I’ll do an hour’s work now before I go, then I’ve not wasted the whole day.’

Grandad raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure “wasted” isn’t the correct word.’

‘Well, no, not visiting Saffron. I don’t know about anything else though.’ Amber looked down at the cup of tea in front of her, a filmy skin beginning to form on the top. She’d spent most of the night trying to ward away the bleak thoughts crowding her head. Today was a day she couldn’t avoid. At some point she had to see Saffron’s headstone. She was already hurting so much, it could hardly make her feel worse. And then a strained lunch with Jonathan. Despite loving and missing him, conversely she didn’t want to see him. To talk about everything – no doubt she’d be expected to discuss her mental state. Or answer difficult questions about how much longer she’d be staying with Grandad, or how far she’d got with her book archiving. Even in the depths of her despair, she knew she wasn’t being fair to Jonathan, shutting him out when he needed her, but she couldn’t find a way to let him in.

Getting to her feet, she automatically hitched her trousers up. Even with a high percentage of elastane, her stretchy black trousers still gaped at the waist, and the charcoal grey sweater she was wearing showed deep hollows beneath her collarbones as it almost slipped from her shoulders. She’d lost more weight than she’d realised.

It was chilly in the office, but she decided against putting on the heating, there was little point when she’d only be working for a short while. Switching on her laptop she surveyed the books still left on her desk awaiting cataloguing. There were several first editions that should really be in the library, although thankfully being stored in tea chests and cardboard boxes hadn’t done them much harm.

Ignoring what was laid out in front of her, however, she knew which book she couldn’t wait another minute to investigate. What she was drawn to, and had been thinking of during the long insomniac hours of the night when the dark pressed in. Carefully Amber took the precious book from the safe. She’d undertaken some initial research, which had confirmed her supposition that it was a book of hours, a personal medieval prayer book belonging to a high-ranking lady. She laid it on the velvet book cradle she’d brought with her when she first moved in. She hadn’t expected anything as exciting as this would need her specialist attention.

After pulling on her gloves, gleaming white in their bleached freshness, once again she unwrapped the coarse coverings, this time looking more carefully at what she thought originally had just been a rag. Although textiles were not her speciality, she strongly suspected the fabric was linen and it looked fairly fine, high class, not rough workers’ material. This was compounded by the delicate embroidery that appeared to have once been blackwork, the simple geometric embroidery in black silk that was used to decorate the edges of shirts and smocks in medieval times, along one edge. In an age when all fabrics were expensive, they would have still used an item ruined with what appeared to be a dark stain, as a wrapping. She wondered why a damaged cover had ended up around a book as precious as this one.

She ran her fingertips over the thick deep brown leather cover, delicately tooled and engraved into a coat of arms, although it was now shiny and worn in places. It appeared to have originally been coloured, but that had almost worn away as well, just small traces of yellow and red visible. Running her hands over it, feeling gently with her fingertips like reading elaborate Braille, it was almost impossible to ascertain what had originally been there. She carefully turned to the first page and her eyes fell onto the writing she’d observed the previous day. Once again a shiver of distress ran down her spine and made her shudder. She tried not to look at the inscription for Mary, but opening a new document on her laptop she began to make notes. When she finally handed the book over to her colleagues at the Fitzwilliam Museum, she’d like to give them a full research paper as well.

List of births and deaths, she quickly annotated, but one – Thomas Lutton – does not have proper date of birth, just a month and year beside his entry.

Opposite the list of names, were the scrawling lines of Latin. It was almost impossible to decipher. She’d picked up a small amount from projects she’d been assigned to at work, but she could only recognise the more popular and frequently used words and phrases. Taking her magnifying glass from the desk drawer, she tried to see if making the words larger would help. She frowned as she squinted at it. What did it mean?

A quick glance at the corner of her laptop screen confirmed what she’d suspected, she needed to be leaving or she’d be late. Her investigations would have to wait, and after carefully rewrapping the book in its bindings she laid it in the safe in the corner of the room. There was a tiny stirring in the pit of her stomach, the smallest butterfly wing of piqued interest. After weeks and weeks of wading through Grandad’s collection, maybe she’d come across something exceptionally special.

Amber stopped her car in Swaffham. Driving in the rain had made her eyes feel gritty and her mood, which had improved just a little after her work on the book of hours, was now as damp as the weather outside.

She thought she could do this. See Jonathan, make small talk, avoid talking about the subjects he clearly wanted to discuss but never did because he was too frightened of putting his foot in it. To visit Saffron’s grave and see the new headstone, a visible reminder in perpetuity she wasn’t able to do that most basic of things and keep her baby safe inside. Now, she wanted to turn around and return to Grandad’s and hide. But she couldn’t run away forever. And hopefully it would feel cathartic to lay some flowers for Saffron.

After getting out of the car, she splashed her way down the High Street trying to dodge the puddles, and darted into the florist. There was only one flower shop in the town, otherwise she’d have gone elsewhere. This was where Jonathan had brought her to choose flowers for the funeral. Even walking into the shop again, the overwhelming smell of flowers and greenery, of new life, threatened to push her over the edge.

Thankfully the young woman behind the counter was a different florist, so no problem with being remembered and having to have an uncomfortable conversation. Instead, after exchanging pleasantries about the poor weather, Amber was able to ask for a bouquet of gypsophila and leave with her purchase, laying the flowers with their small, fragile white petals gently on the car seat beside her. It was the flower they had chosen to be laid on the tiny white wicker coffin at her funeral, and Amber couldn’t think of anything else to buy.

Eventually she pulled up in the lay-by beside the church. Her hands trembled as she wiped her damp palms down her trousers. She knew she should have parked on the drive at home – the vicarage was right beside the church. Through the trees, she could see its dull yellow bricks threaded with ivy. But for the moment, she didn’t want to alert Jonathan to her arrival.

Before, in that other life, the one before Saffron, she’d loved being in that house. It was their hideaway from the world. There had been many lively meals with friends, which carried on long into the night. Her academic colleagues from Cambridge were a good match with Jonathan’s ecclesiastical ones, together with old school friends and couples from the village, some with small children or expecting their own babies.

The rain had finally stopped, the sky slowly clearing as the constant drips from the trees bounced off her head and shoulders as she walked slowly towards the church. Maybe she should be doing this with Jonathan, but she wanted silence and peace to be alone with her thoughts.

She followed the path around to the back and then across the grass, freshly mown but sodden with the rain, the grass cuttings sticking to her shoes. The area for the children’s graves was in the far corner, set slightly apart from the rest. A small cluster of sorrow. Some of the graves were decorated with plastic windmills, soggy teddies and pottery rabbits. Everyone dealing with loss in their own way.

Saffron’s pale cream headstone, its gold lettering glistening under the beads of raindrops decorating it, sparkled in the weak sunlight pushing through the clouds. Kneeling beside it, Amber ran her fingers over the engraved words.

Saffron Morton, born asleep 18 February 2019

And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,

Live but to light your passing feet

It was every bit as permanent as she had imagined. And it hurt, seeing it, just as much as she knew it would. Gently she laid the flowers she had brought on the small bump of grass in front of the headstone.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry you aren’t here with us, like we planned. I miss you every day and I know your daddy does as well.’ Talking to her daughter was easier than she had imagined it would be and she had a small insight into how Jonathan could find it a comfort to visit the grave and talk to Saffron every morning. She got to her feet and retraced her steps towards the car. She knew what she needed to do now, what she’d agreed to, but she couldn’t manage it. It was too hard. Another time, she’d go and see Jonathan another time. She was sure he’d understand why she couldn’t do this now.

Standing at the window of the empty nursery, Jonathan watched her kneeling at the graveside before getting slowly to her feet and walking away, her head bowed. Minutes later he heard her car start up and drive away. He rubbed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, stopping the hot tears from running down his face.

Chapter Nine

2019

The following day, Amber was surprised she had no messages. No missed calls or voicemails, no texts. Nothing. Had she got the day wrong? Hadn’t Jonathan been expecting her the previous day when she’d raced back to the sanctuary of Grandad and Saffron Hall as if the devil were at her back? She’d be lucky if she didn’t get a speeding ticket.

She double-checked her calendar. She’d definitely got the correct day, so why hadn’t he called to find out the reason she hadn’t arrived for lunch? After his numerous messages previously, it seemed odd. And maybe, she admitted to herself, she was a tiny bit disappointed there hadn’t been a single enquiring message. Even she could tell she was being contrary.

Thankfully Grandad hadn’t questioned her when she returned, his tentative ‘you’re earlier than I was expecting,’ was met with her terse ‘yes, I am,’ and that was the end of the conversation.

Amber decided to put all thoughts of Jonathan to one side, at least for a few hours. If she hadn’t heard from him by lunchtime, she’d send an apology and explanation. First of all, she was desperate to start some in-depth investigations on the tiny ancient prayer book, without interruptions. Her heart beat faster every time she thought of it, but she hadn’t wanted to start an examination of it the previous day after the upset and the drive home. This precious object required a level head. She pulled on her white gloves.

Before she had a chance to start tackling the Latin, however, she was disturbed by a loud thumping on the front door, followed by the doorbell ringing.

Cursing under her breath – she knew for a fact Grandad was outside in his greenhouse – she pulled her gloves off and marched through to the entrance hall, opening the door.

‘Oh. I’d been expecting you to call, not for you to drive all the way here.’ Her shock at finding Jonathan on the doorstep made her blurt out a less than polite welcome.

‘If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain.’ He tilted his head to one side and gave her a brief apologetic smile, his eyes creasing in the way that had always made her tummy flip. She felt a flush of embarrassment at her behaviour the previous day as she opened the door wider so he could step inside.

‘Come in. Coffee?’ she asked. ‘There’s only instant I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll cope, thanks.’ His need to drink thick, freshly brewed black coffee both day and night was a constant source of jokes between them. ‘I hadn’t realised the damage to the tower that you mentioned was so bad. I saw the scaffolding around it as I drove up from the village.’

Walking through to the kitchen, she explained about the problems Kenny and Pete had discovered. She filled the kettle and took cups, coffee and a teabag for herself from the cupboard.

‘I owe you an apology,’ she finally admitted, making herself face him. ‘I was going to call when I thought you’d be at home and not busy. I’m sorry about yesterday. It all overwhelmed me, and I didn’t know what to say to you. I still don’t. I did visit Saffron’s grave. The headstone looks … good. Well, not good. How can anything about her being there and not with us, be good? But you know, it looks like I expected it to. And I still like the Yeats quote. I’m glad we went with it.’ She smiled at him gently, softening her features.

‘I saw you,’ he admitted.

‘Sorry? You did? Where?’ She was confused.

‘With Saffron. I was watching you from the back bedroom window.’ She noticed he no longer called it the nursery. ‘I wasn’t spying, I happened to glance out, and you were there. Then you left and didn’t appear at our front door, so I guessed you’d changed your mind.’

She passed him his drink and squeezed the teabag in her cup, throwing it into the food compost bin. No wonder the weeds grew so profusely in the garden, given the size of compost heap Grandad was building.

‘I didn’t change my mind,’ she protested, immediately on the defensive. He must be so tired of her prickly attitude, because it was certainly exhausting her. It pulled her down to a place she didn’t want to be. ‘You make it sound so fickle. I just couldn’t cope with it. I was upset and I didn’t want to talk.’

‘About Saffron, or about us?’ His shoulders were rigid as he exhaled sharply.

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Both maybe.’

‘We have to talk at some point, Amber.’ His voice rose, his knuckles white as they clasped his cup. ‘We can’t just drift along like this forever.’

‘I know, I know, but not at the moment please – it’s not the right time. Not yet. Have we had a letter with an appointment to see the consultant? Remember they said we’d get one?’ Abruptly changing the subject, she poured milk into her tea and sat down opposite him.

‘No, I’ll give them a call and chase it.’ He took a sip of his coffee and stared out of the window. ‘Have you seen Becky since you arrived?’ Becky, her best friend and closest work colleague. They’d both started work at the university within a couple of months of each other, Becky as a lecturer in medieval art history and Amber as an archivist in the same department, often working alongside each other on projects. Within hours of being together they had discovered that Becky lived in the same village as her grandfather, and that coincidence had been one of many.

‘No, not yet,’ she confessed. ‘She called me when I first got here and I said I’d get back to her but I haven’t yet. I keep chickening out. The less I talk to people, the less I feel able to.’

‘Look, I know it’s hard to reach out and speak to people, but it may help. She’s your friend and she’ll want to help you, and if you can’t talk to me then maybe to her? Don’t be short-sighted, go and have a chat, even if it’s just to have a shoulder to cry on.’

‘Crying isn’t the answer though, is it?’ Her hand came down sharply on the table. ‘I spend half my life crying but that won’t bring our baby back and neither will talking to someone. How can I pretend to be the old happy smiling Amber when that person has gone and I’ll never be her again?’

‘I don’t know, Amber, I don’t have all the answers. But I do know that I miss having you at home. It feels so empty, like you’ve been gone forever. I want our lives to move on somehow. How much longer will the book archiving here take?’ He raised his eyebrows at her. This time it was Amber’s turn to admit she didn’t have any answers.

‘There’s still over half to catalogue,’ she explained. She almost told him about the precious book of hours, but then stopped herself. Just for a little while longer she wanted to keep it to herself, at least until she’d unearthed the secrets it held. ‘I can’t come home yet. I feel so upset there, reminders everywhere. I feel calmer here, safer. Saffron Hall has always felt special to me; you know that. We both decided to call our daughter after this place because of the bond I have with it, and right now I feel as if it’s protecting me from the world.’

‘I know how it makes you feel, but is it protecting you from me as well? You don’t have a monopoly on being sad.’

‘Of course not from you.’ As she said it she wasn’t sure the words were true, but she hated seeing him this way, his shoulders hunched as he leant on the table, a broken man. ‘But you’ve got your church, and your calling, a reason to carry on. At the moment I don’t have that. I don’t have anything.’

‘You do have something – you have me. Staying here forever and wallowing in grief isn’t the answer, Amber. You’ve pressed “pause” on both of our lives, but somehow we have to try and find a solution.’ Jonathan laid his hands on the kitchen table, palms up.

‘I’m not “wallowing”—’ she made little inverted commas in the air with her fingers ‘—I just need a break from life for a little while. Sometimes I really wonder if you know me at all. If you ever did.’ She regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth and she was devastated when Jonathan, her rock, always her tower of strength, agreed with her.

‘So do I, Amber, so do I.’ Getting to his feet he shrugged his jacket back on, leaving his coffee on the table. ‘We aren’t getting anywhere. Perhaps you were right not to stay for lunch yesterday. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’ Rummaging through his pockets, always full of the detritus of life, he located his car keys. He came around the table and gave her a peck on the cheek; his dry, cool lips there and then gone, so brief she hardly felt it. She moved to hug him, but he wasn’t there. The front door opened and there was a moment’s silence as if he’d stopped for a moment, then it slammed shut and she heard his car engine start up. The house was quiet again, every fragment of it holding its breath, as shocked as she was.

Amber poured her cup of tea down the sink and immediately began to make herself another. Now she wished she’d gone to lunch with him the previous day. If they’d been in public neither of them would have felt able to throw accusations at each other as they just had. She felt further away from him than ever. She still loved him, she truly did, but from behind the barriers she’d erected around herself she didn’t know how to show him anymore. She had no strength left to try.

Leaving her tea beside the kettle, she wandered back to the office, making a mental note to call Becky and see if they could meet up for a coffee. At least then she’d have done one little thing Jonathan had asked of her.

The book of hours was still resting in the cradle where she’d left it when Jonathan had knocked on the door. She sat back down in front of it, picking up her gloves but not pulling them on. Leaning back in her chair she gazed out of the window, but the vast expanse of pale cloud, the brilliant light of Norfolk so loved by artists, wasn’t offering her any answers.

Finally, giving herself a little shake, she turned to the book. It didn’t have any solutions, but it might hopefully provide some distraction. She opened it at the front to reread the Latin inscription, which she had now fully transcribed and couldn’t stop thinking about.

infans filia sub pedibus nostris requiescit

nunc mihi tempus fugit

oro vos et spero in vobis

pro illa

ut ea in pace requiescat

What did it mean? She opened the translation app she normally used. There were a few words she recognised but not enough to make sense. The translation wasn’t completely straightforward, and eventually Amber had before her a passage that she was still unsure of. The hairs stood up along her arms as she read it and she gave an involuntary shudder.

A baby daughter lies beneath our feet

time escapes me now

I beseech you and place my trust

for her

so she may be at peace

What was Eleanor asking? This book was hundreds of years old, and yet Amber had an eerie feeling this was a personal message for her, reaching down through the centuries. If only she knew what Eleanor wanted. It was baffling, and yet there was a connection. A plucking at the filaments of time trying to catch her attention.

Leaving the passage for a moment, she carefully turned the page. She gasped with delight at the miniatures that shone out, their brilliance and colours, rich reds and vibrant hues of blue, with flecks of brilliant gold. It seemed as though the book hadn’t been opened since it was originally scribed. These illustrations were saints, she was certain, although she had no idea which ones they were. Becky certainly would. Turning the page again, she was keen to discover what other secrets the book was holding between its covers. Despite the Latin, she recognised the first few words of the Invitatory from other prayer books she had studied, followed by Psalm ninety-four, decorated with yet more delicate illumination that surrounded not just the initial letter, but almost half the page. Either the scribe who worked on it had been paid by the hour and had wanted to drag out the time it took him, or he was really devoted to his work. Either way, it was exquisite and incredibly well preserved.

The following two pages were less decorative and contained a calendar of church feasts as she would have expected, but her eyes widened and she held her hand to her mouth as she turned to the next page and discovered not more prayers, but what appeared to be a journal entry written in a different hand. It was decorated around the edge of the page with a careful attempt at some illuminated art in blues and yellows, although not as fine as the previous pages.

Written in the same distinctive handwriting as the entries in the frontispiece of the book, Amber found it almost as difficult to decipher as the Latin she’d struggled with on the front page, but as time went on, she found it easier to recognise individual letters. Whoever had written it had to be well educated – the writing had been precisely executed. Finally, with the assistance of her app, she was able to read the whole thing, tapping into her laptop as she repeated it out loud.

‘Eleanor Lutton, born 29 November in the year of our Lord 1520. Married this March 21 1538 to Sir Greville Lutton. I hope my husband will love me and be kind to me.’

This prayer book must also be Eleanor’s journal. The names at the beginning and the dates corresponded. Gently she turned to the front again to check, whilst doing some mental arithmetic. In 1538, Eleanor would have been seventeen, so more than marriageable age. Greville had been almost thirty, so quite a bit older. And Jane’s date of birth was 1534, so did Eleanor already have a child? A widow at seventeen, she’d have had Jane aged fourteen – not unheard of in the sixteenth century. But the entry said Jane Lutton, so it seemed more likely Greville was the one who’d been widowed, and the little girl was his.

Why did she hope he’d be kind to her? There was something in the way she wrote it. She sounded scared and worried, a little unsure. Amber gave a shudder. Back in Tudor times, she reminded herself, someone as educated as Eleanor must have been, to be able to write in both English and Latin, would have been married for family or political reasons, or money. Not for love.

She must have been muttering to herself out loud as she worked, because Grandad appeared in the doorway, bringing her back to the present day and making her jump.

‘I thought I heard you talking,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you had a visitor.’

‘I was working. Wait until I show you – you’re going to love this. But yes I did have a visitor earlier. Jonathan was here.’

Grandad raised his eyebrows. ‘And?’

‘And nothing. We argued, he stormed out. I feel so guilty. We don’t seem to be able to agree on anything at the moment. He suggested I go and visit Becky, see if that helps.’

‘You should call in on her. She’s your best friend and only a mile away. Locking yourself away here with me and my books all the time isn’t going to do you any good. You need to go out and see other people occasionally. Have a chat, get things off your chest. Or invite her up here for dinner again?’ He reminded her about the time Becky had come for dinner and a tour of the hall when they’d first realised she lived in the same village as Grandad.

‘We’ll see. I only agreed to please Jonathan. Anyway, come and sit in my chair and let me show you what was in that package that Pete found up in the tower. This is really exciting.’

Jumping to her feet, she held the chair still with both hands, bracing her hip against it while he carefully sat down. He rested his hands on the desk and peered at the book on the cradle.

‘A genuine, perfectly preserved book of hours. Not a Voynich – I think it’s later than that although it’s hand-scribed not printed. But the best part is that it’s also been used as a journal. There are some dates of birth in the frontispiece but here, four pages in, is the recording of the owner Eleanor’s marriage to a certain Greville Lutton. Isn’t it amazing? How come it was up in the tower? Do you suppose it’s been here all the time? Do you know who the Luttons were? Surely someone has been up there and would have found it before now.’

Grandad shook his head slowly. ‘I’d forgotten about Pete finding that package. How amazing. I’ve told you before that there’s always been a family suspicion about the tower. I always thought that was tosh. My father told me nobody should ever try to go up the tower, that it may be haunted, or cursed. Not of course that his warning stopped me.’ He chuckled. ‘When I was a teenager I made a concerted effort to find the key. Some friends came back from school to stay over and we ransacked the house trying to work out a way of getting up there. A dare, I suppose it was, but when my father discovered what we were up to, he went absolutely crazy. I’d never seen him so angry. I’ve never felt the desire to go up there again; he put the fear of God into me. It seems that the tales were correct, although I doubt the book is cursed.’

‘Of course it isn’t. And really it should be in a museum. We can donate it to the Fitzwilliam when we’re ready, but do you mind if I carry out some research first? I’m wondering what sort of connection, if any, it has with our family. I know Saffron Hall has been in the family for a long time, but I didn’t think we’d been living here as far back as this book dates to.’

‘I don’t have an issue with you investigating it. I haven’t seen you so animated since …’ he paused ‘… since you came to stay. But make sure it’s kept in the safe.’

Amber agreed, helping him to his feet and offering to heat some soup for lunch. After carefully wrapping the book in its frayed shroud, she locked it away.

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