“What is this?” Tiberius demanded.
Mertensia stepped forward. “You told Caspian you would not leave us in peace until and unless she was buried. That is what I mean to do.”
“Here?” Tiberius looked around. “This is not hallowed ground.”
“This is a garden,” she told him. “The first place of God’s own creation for mankind. It is as hallowed a place as anyone could wish. If you want hymns, we shall sing them. If you want prayers, we shall make them.”
Tiberius hesitated. “Malcolm ought to be here.”
“Malcolm is not well,” she said, new authority steadying her voice as she stood toe-to-toe with him. “I will explain everything when he is capable of comprehending it. For now, he will rest.”
Tiberius turned in a slow circle, taking it in. Just behind was the stone wall covered in lady of the night, the scent perfuming the night air. The serene face of the figurehead called Mercy watched over it all with opaque eyes.
“Very well,” he said hoarsely. “Do it.”
There had been no time for a coffin. Mertensia had unearthed draperies from the attics, heavy golden brocade, and Rosamund had been wrapped carefully in these. With infinite gentleness, Caspian and Stoker moved to place her in the grave. When she had been laid neatly, we each took up a handful of the piled earth and dropped it onto the shimmering cloth, offering a peaceful passing to the young woman who would rest forever in the garden at the edge of the sea.
Finally, it was Tiberius’ turn. We stepped backwards to give him a moment of privacy as he slipped to his knees at the edge of the grave. I heard his voice, a low murmur that went on for a long time as he spoke one last time to the love of his life. I heard, too, the dull noise when the soil in his hand dropped to the golden cloth. He rose and took the shovel from Caspian’s grasp. Together, he and Stoker finished the long, laborious task of filling in the grave. When they had finished, Stoker put a hand to his brother’s shoulder and Tiberius covered it with his own for a brief moment. Then he shrugged it away and went to the Cestrum, the lady of the night, cutting a long sprig of it to place upon the mound of earth. It was white and fragrant and looked very much like a bridal bouquet. We stood for a long time in that garden as the moon rose above us, shedding its pearly light, and over it all spread the scent of the starry jasmine blossoms blowing away and over the sea.
• • •
By the next morning, all was decided. When Malcolm had recovered himself enough to travel, Caspian and Helen were taking him on a long tour of Italy. A foreign country with no acquaintance to ask questions was just the thing. They expected to be gone at least a year while Malcolm made peace with all that had happened. In the meantime, Mertensia would act as master of St. Maddern’s Isle, and given the decisiveness and authority she had exhibited on that fateful night, I had little doubt the island would be in good hands.
The news of Mrs. Trengrouse’s passing was accepted with relief on all sides, although Tiberius looked as if he regretted the fact that her end had been a tranquil one. It took a little gentle debate before Mrs. Trengrouse’s fate was decided and, in the end, it was Stoker’s suggestion which prevailed. He had discovered in his conversations with the local fishermen that burials at sea were sometimes held surreptitiously for those who had died quietly at home and preferred the consolations of the deep to those of the churchyard. He explained that the current had shifted and that anything put on the outgoing tide would be carried away. And so her body was taken down to the shingle beach on the western edge of the isle. She was laid into a small boat and pushed out to sea as the tide turned, bearing her over the horizon.
“It is better than she deserves,” Tiberius said as we watched the tiny craft bob and toss on the waves.
“Perhaps,” I said. “But justice has been meted. And the dead can rest at last.”
• • •
We packed and prepared to leave the castle the following week. We had all been affected by the strange events, and Mertensia and Caspian, for once, had been grateful of company. I spent much time with Mertensia in the garden, preparing my beautiful glasswing specimens and learning their habits. Stoker and I still had not talked to one another again about the night on the First Sister, the night when so many things had been said that could not be unspoken. But the anticipation of what lay before us simmered within me, and more than once I caught his eyes upon me, warm with intention.
Our last afternoon, I had gone down to the village after luncheon to take my leave of Mother Nance, which entailed many tankards of cider and a few more cryptic remarks. “A long journey you’ll be taking,” she told me, winking, as she raised her tankard to mine. “Mark me well, m’dear.”
I made my way slowly up the path towards the top of St. Maddern’s, the last of the summer sunshine warm upon my back as I walked. I passed through the gate leading to the castle grounds just as Stoker appeared.
He stopped when he reached me, his eyes alight.
“Good afternoon,” I said formally. We had spent the last week in a froth of anticipation, hardly daring
