It was a child’s rain, soft and toying, tapping gently, unseen on her shoulders and the top of her head. Only a spider’s web caught the shimmering, winking little droplets, pinning them against the deep green leaves. The birds sang, but she couldn’t see them nestled in the trees and among the roses. There were no other noises, save for her footsteps as she moved between forgetful blossoms that gave no care to the wind’s sharp reminders. She stopped and sat on a bench, pinching and picking off the green lichen that grew and reminded her faintly of turnips.
She stayed until her damp shift was cold and a chill crept into her bones. The summer was almost past. Though flowers remained, and jasmine surrounded her as it crept over the walls, she knew the winter was creeping nearer. She didn’t want it to come. She didn’t trust it.
No lights were flickering in the windows above her. The children and servants must be in bed, she realized with a start. She had stayed too long. Margaret would be furious. Margaret was ready to throw her from the house, Rose knew, except that Rose could spill her secrets and bring shame to the family. Margaret wanted to keep a tight leash on her.
She crept past the torch at the garden gate and to the torch dancing in the breeze near the house door. She slipped off her pattens from her shoes so she would make no noise as she crept to her room. She entered the silent home and kept a hand along one wall as she moved, not waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Voices caught her attention and she slowed.
It was Sir Thomas; she could tell by his inflection and the deep bass of his voice. The servants had all been so nervous due to the whippings of prisoners at the gatehouse that their voices had grown higher lately. The other voice was softer, a woman’s voice.
Rose crept down the hall to his study and listened. Yes, it was Sir Thomas, and she thought the second voice was Margaret’s. To be sure, she crept closer and peered in through the door left cracked open for a breeze from the garden gate.
Margaret was lifting off a hair shirt from her father—a bristled, thick garment. Rose saw that Sir Thomas’s broad back was red with scratches and wounds. Margaret dabbed on an ointment from an amber-coloured glass jar. Sir Thomas groaned under his breath. The medicine smelled like lavender to Rose; its sharp scent flowed out to find her.
“Let me take this away,” Margaret said softly.
Sir Thomas shook his head.
“It has done its work,” she protested.
Sir Thomas shook his head.
Margaret picked up the shirt, lowering it over Sir Thomas’s head as he moved to put his arms through it. Rose could hear him suck wind through clenched teeth as it touched his skin. Next, Margaret lowered a linen shirt over his head and helped him into this.
“The Church teaches our suffering catches the eye of God,” Sir Thomas said. “Suffering makes Him inclined to answer our prayers.”
Rose shook her head. She suspected suffering caught the devil’s eye just as fast. Those who suffered were the first to drown in whiskey and live abused. They always tried first to purge their pain with evils; it was the only thing they knew intimately. They were all children, afraid that grace burned at first like medicine on a cut.
“But why must you suffer?” Margaret asked. “Is it punishment that you weren’t a priest? Do you regret having us?
Sir Thomas turned and took her hand. “Regret you? No. Suffering keeps my thoughts pure. I must be a good father, a holy example. You are the reason I wear the hair shirt, yes, but only that I may bear the punishment for sin in my body and spare you from it.”
“But I have sinned, Father,” Margaret said. Rose saw her chin trembling. “The book you seek, the man Hutchins? I …” She paused for a steadying breath. “I read it.”
“I know,” he replied. “A servant found it under your mattress and brought it to me. You are young, Margaret,” he comforted her, “and illicit ideas will sometimes sway the young. I have taken vengeance for your name, my dear. I have arrested the women who were responsible for spreading the books, encouraging you to folly. They will be racked, and perhaps burned if they cannot ask forgiveness. I will make sure the idea has no appeal to any other youth, and no other father will suffer the grief I felt.”
Rose was sick. The darkness forced itself down her throat, making her retch. She clasped a hand over her mouth.
“Are the dresses you have ordered ready?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Yes, Father,” Margaret replied. She did not look well, either.