Everyone nodded.
The two men gave a shove and the tapestry unrolled, the colors so bright after the shadows in the crypt that everyone gasped. No stone dust had marred the panel, no light since the day Richard Kirkwood had found it and dragged it into a box room in the public wing, away from prying eyes. The tapestry went into the crypt immediately, but not until Richard had shown his son the awful thing. He swore Graham to secrecy and never told him specifically where it was hidden. Gabe knew though, but he kept Richard’s secret as well as his own. Nevertheless, Graham’s superstition and his unease knew no bounds. Still, promises had been made so, as gruesome as the subject on display was, all three standing in that chapel on this day held their tempers and their tongues.
This last panel of the so-named Hunt of the Innocent was different from the other six; it was twice the size of the others, for one thing. It was also divided into three sections, like a triptych or a grotesque altarpiece. The first section gave the impression that the woman in the sixth had leapt from that panel into this one. As Sorrel and Poppy had seen earlier, her foot was bloodied, but now everyone could see against the frayed edges of her nightdress that her leg and her arms were almost flayed. In this section her face was visible for the first time, and even with the terror in her eyes, picked out so intricately by the weavers, Delphine swore that she could see the reflection of her pursuers in them. The woman was beautiful. Her tangled hair was long and black, her neck a fine column of white stained by blood drops. Snarling hounds snapped at her heels as she turned her face over her shoulder to watch them. In the second section the woman had been caught. She was on the ground, her hands held above her by one of the hunters. The dogs were still now, and a row of men stood behind them, a silent jury passing judgment without compunction. All around the woman plants, herbs, and broken flowers lay scattered. If Sorrel had been well and with them, she could have identified them all. Shattered glass phials were ground under the feet of the hunters, and a mortar and pestle were overturned at her feet. Behind her a tall stake stood at the center of a pyre waiting to be lit.
This section, this chapter of The Hunt of the Innocent, struck Poppy with the force of a blow. This was Anna, it had to be: Elizabeth’s mentor, the village midwife, Elizabeth’s own midwife, and her friend. This was what had happened to Anna; she was the innocent hunted by Thomas and his savages. In fact, Thomas was the man holding Anna’s hands in a cruel grip, a black cord wrapped around her wrists. He was instantly recognizable by his height, his hair, and his unsmiling face. Poppy longed for Sorrel’s insight and also for her comfort as she looked at the awful man.
Slowly, slowly in the quiet of the empty chapel all four viewers turned to the last section of the oversized final panel. Even knowing what to expect was no preparation for the hideous completion. Lord Kirkwood and his men stood beside the flaming pyre. Thomas held his torch high and smiled at last, an ugly, ferocious grin that split his face like a wound. The hounds were cowering at the edge of the frame, clearly spooked by the fire. At the very center was Anna. Tied to the rough-hewn stake, she was half consumed by the flames. Her face was absolutely expressionless, her eyes closed. Smoke rose around her in a nimbus and her black hair was filled with sparks. In the distance was the walled garden and farther away still, the tiny chapel. None of it was to perspective or scale or even in the right arrangement. Clearly, the nuns had made some dangerous choices in the composition of the last panel and had concealed clues in the ones that came before. Each building, landmark, image, even the botanicals, held a message for those who wished to see.
“Jesus.” Andrew finally spoke. “I can hardly look at this.”
“That must be how Graham felt when he found it,” Delphine said. “It is hard to fault him, no?”
“Christ, what a lovely family I’ve got,” said Poppy.
Gabe signed, it was clearer and faster than speaking, and with Andrew at hand to translate, everyone would now know what he did.
“You are all missing the bigger point,” he signed as Andrew spoke quickly, his eyes on Gabe’s hands.
“This last panel holds the key to rescuing the garden,” Gabe said.
“I don’t think anyone gives a shit about the garden right now,” Poppy said.
“I know I only care about Sorrel,” Andrew said.
Gabe began signing again. “Exactly, the secret to the garden is the secret to saving Sorrel.”
“WHAT ARE YOU going to do about Sorrel, Gray?” Stella asked.
They were sitting in the library with untouched tea before them.
“Please, Stella,” Graham said. “Can I have just a moment to think?”
“No, you may not,” Stella said. “You made this mess, you gormless twit!”
“Stella!” Graham was shocked that his wife would speak to him with such a lack of affection.
“We’ve got no time for your games now, Gray,” Stella said. She softened. “I know you’ve only been trying to protect us, but what you’ve done instead is throw Sorrel into harm’s way, just as I warned, and lost the garden at the same time. How do you think Poppy’s going to feel about her father when she realizes everything that’s gone wrong stems from you?”
“Bugger,” Graham said without much energy.
“Bugger indeed,” Stella said and pulled Graham to his feet. “Let’s go then.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To find the rest of this motley crew and make a plan.”
POPPY PROPPED HER laptop on the table in Andrew’s kitchen and let Patience walk her through the remedy. While she measured and ground, mixed and shook the ingredients in a jam jar, she told Patience about the latest discovery.
“So you guys have figured out what, exactly?” Patience asked.
“Well, it looks like, from the tapestry at least, that Anna was burned as a witch.”
Patience shuddered. “Assholes,” she spat.
“Exactly,” Poppy said. “Now Gabe, he’s our caretaker—”
“You all need one,” Patience said.
“Fine, I’ll acknowledge that,” Poppy said. “Gabe claims that Anna’s bones or ashes or something equally disturbing, are buried in the Shakespeare Garden and that’s why it’s cursed.”
“Let’s put aside for a moment the impossibility of everything you just said and accept that Anna’s remains were buried centuries ago in the garden your father hired Sorrel to restore,” Patience said and held up her hand. “Wait, the lovage root has to be grated and then the liquid squeezed out.”
“Oh, right,” Poppy said and did as Patience instructed.
“So, if Anna’s whatever are in fact in the garden all these years later, in theory they could have tainted the soil.”