“Oh, Patience,” Sorrel said. “Now there’s Andrew.”
“Exactly,” Patience thumped her hand on the counter. “Now there’s Andrew.”
“But is it real? Is it Andrew Warburton or is it Patience Sparrow?” If Andrew were simply under a spell… Sorrel shook her head. Not a spell, she thought.
“Sorrel, listen to me,” Patience snapped. “Love, lust, attraction, whatever you want to call it, it can’t be mixed up in a bowl or distilled from the garden. You know that, or you should.”
“Right, tell that to Andrew,” Sorrel moaned. “You’ve got to stop looking for my knight in shining armor, Patience.”
“You don’t want the shiny knight, Sorrel, you want the dented one who’s actually had to fight for something.”
“Andrew went through a fairly cataclysmic relationship rupture,” Sorrel said. “I’d label that a battle, and it certainly accounts for the darkness at his center and his shaky faith.”
“Then if I opened his heart instead of yours, I am not the least bit sorry,” Patience said. “And if you are responding to that as well, then the only magic at work is what your heart is telling you. Attend to that, Sorrel, and stop looking for an excuse to seal yourself away.”
Patience ended the conversation, fumbling to find the right key on her computer just long enough for Sorrel to see the smile stealing onto her lips.
“I AM EXHAUSTED,” Sorrel said into her room. “I am confused and tired and”—she looked at the bed—“I am lying down and no one can stop me.”
She woke to Stella’s gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Sorrel, darling, do wake up,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” Sorrel asked. “What time is it?”
“Nothing’s wrong, dear. Delphine’s come by and I knew you’d want to talk with her.”
Delphine had arrived with a box of homemade savory thyme shortbread and a bottle of elderflower cordial. When Sorrel came into the library, she was handed a glass and told to sit by the imperious Delphine, something she was getting used to.
“So, little gardener, here is what I have discovered.”
Sorrel thought that if someone handed her another discovery, she just might hit them over the head with it.
“The seventh panel of the tapestry is in the chapel,” Delphine said and raised her glass.
“No it’s not.” Andrew walked into the room. “No one has ever confirmed there is a seventh so we don’t know if it’s a thing period.”
“But it is a thing,” said Delphine. “And the chapel is the only possibility, the only place it must be, I am certain.”
“Delphine, I have seen an awful lot of that chapel during the renovations and if there is a giant meters-wide and long, richly woven and embroidered, ancient tapestry of a dead or dying witch or thief or unicorn languishing in some hidey-hole, I’d have found it.”
Every woman in the room rolled her eyes. Of course there was a final tapestry.
“The panel is well hidden, and you were not yourself when you began the project,” Delphine said with a sniff. “You wouldn’t even know where to look. The nuns were resourceful.”
“The nuns were never here,” Stella said. “The tapestries were commissioned by Thomas and woven in Belgium. If anyone oversaw their installation, it would have been Lady Kirkwood.”
“Who was, sadly, sick or dead by then,” Sorrel added. “As we know now.”
“Yes, but if we assume that Elizabeth had a hand in the weaving then she wouldn’t need to be alive when they were installed to be sure the story was told.” Poppy clapped her hands. “You see, Thomas was an ass, he’d never figure out the ‘fuck you’ that was really in the tapestries, he’d have celebrated their brutality. Only later would any Kirkwood be embarrassed by the subject matter!”
Delphine took this as proof that she was right. “Perhaps hiding it was someone else’s secret, then. So, we go to the chapel, we bring out the tapestry, we solve the mystery for Sorrel, and all will be well.” She stood and looked around at the gathering.
“Why are you not moving?” she asked.
Sorrel slumped over, Stella smoothed her skirt, and Andrew up threw his arms.
“Fine, I’ll take this one,” he said. “Allons-y, Delphine.”
“I do believe that Delphine might have grabbed us all by the ears if Andrew hadn’t volunteered,” Stella said.
Sorrel snorted. “She is persuasive.”
“And determined,” Stella agreed. “So, Graham will arrive tomorrow, and I want you to know that if you feel compelled to give him a good dressing-down, I will cheer you on. And even though you have assured me you won’t leave us, and I hope you haven’t reconsidered, I would take you to the airport myself if that is what you asked.”
Sorrel wasn’t going to upbraid Graham; there was no real call for that. He was a bit of a kook, but he wasn’t mean-spirited. Besides, if she had to lecture people who thought of their own concerns first, she’d do nothing else. And she certainly wasn’t going to run home like a scared child. For the first time in a long while Sorrel knew exactly what she was doing. The minute she breathed the still air in the Shakespeare Garden, the minute her fingers felt the crumbling moss and powdery soil, Sorrel knew this was a garden built on skeletons. Perhaps she hadn’t expected the truth to be quite so literal, but she also couldn’t blame Graham for his single-minded drive to save a family he thought in peril. As for the garden being actually bad for her health, well, that remained to be seen once Sorrel really dug in. And now that she’d alerted Patience to the situation, Sorrel suspected there’d be a package at the tiny post office within days. Not that she’d need it, not at all. It wasn’t as if she was about to step onto the moon without a spacesuit.
SORREL WAS WAITING for Andrew in the Tithe Barn when he returned from his Delphine-induced scavenger hunt.
“Well, Indy, did you find the idol?” she asked.
Andrew bent to take his boots off, and Wags flew in from the bedroom and slammed into him.
“Ooof,” he said and fell back on his butt. He was dusty and there was an angry scratch on his cheek.
“Oh dear,” Sorrel said. “What happened?”
“A losing skirmish with a bramble.” He touched his cheek. “Have you got anything for it, my little wiccan?”
“Only this,” Sorrel said and leaned down to kiss him.
“Nicely done,” Andrew said and pulled her onto his lap. Wags danced around them until she gave up and settled with a sigh before the fire.
“We should talk about it,” Sorrel said.
“It’s only a scratch,” Andrew said. “Isn’t that what all the heroes say?”
“No, we need to talk about Patience’s remedy and how you’ve been feeling and, I guess, how I’ve been feeling.”
“Are you ill?” Andrew said and turned her face to his. “I knew it, that damn garden.”