So I went through it once more, and as I moved my hands, he spoke my thoughts aloud.

“John wanted—John had a message for you.” Close eyes, hands to one side, rest cheek on hands. “He died peacefully. With courage.” I brought my hand from the man lying still before me, to cover my heart, and then toward his wife, who stared at me, impassive.

“He said, tell Margery I love her,” said Red. “Tell her she is in my heart.” It was hard for me to keep going, but I told myself, compared with what she feels, this is nothing. Nothing. So my hands went on moving, saying the things I knew John wanted to say, would have said if there had been time, and Red’s quiet voice made my gestures into words.

“He said, tell her I know she will raise my son to be a good man, strong and wise.” I looked at John one last time; his face calm under the bruises, his clean, white feet not quite covered by the robe. I touched the tips of my fingers to my lips, then moved my hand gently toward her.

“He said, say good-bye to them for me. And—and tell my son my story.” There was a catch in Red’s voice. I did not look at him. Margery’s face stayed calm a moment longer, as she met my gaze.

“Thank you,” she said in a very small, polite voice. “I’m glad someone was with him when—and now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” This was Lady Anne, who had maintained her disapproving frown throughout.

“Please.” Margery’s voice was wobbling a little, and as I turned to go, I saw her face crumple, and tears start to roll slowly down her cheeks.

Out on the landing, Red took one look at my limping progress and picked me up bodily with never a by-your-leave.

“You are the most obstinate, pigheaded—” he muttered. “How on earth did you get upstairs?”

“She walked,” said his mother, one step behind and looking like thunder. “As she can perfectly well do now.”

Red stopped part way down the stairs, with me in his arms. We were in full view of the household assembled below. I could see Lady Anne’s thoughts on her face, clear as if they had been spoken aloud. A man died today, because of her. One of our own. Someone’s husband, someone’s father. She killed your friend. And yet, you carry her about as if she were some precious flower, some princess too fragile for her feet to touch the ground. What will they think of you? What are you doing to this house? Red was looking at her too, and when he spoke it was very softly.

“This is a girl who puts herself through hell every day, who will walk over rocks barefoot until her feet bleed, who puts her own needs last, always. But she will not be last in my household. If Jenny cannot walk, then there really is something wrong, Mother. And I will deal with it as I please.” Very calm and controlled. Perhaps only I heard the slight unsteadiness in the voice. His mother was furious. But people could see her face, and so she followed us downstairs with quiet dignity, and said no more. Me, I would rather have hopped and hobbled back to my room alone. But nobody asked me. I did not have to look about me to know what every person there was thinking. John is dead. With him dies part of Harrowfield. What will she destroy next? And yet he shelters her still. Witch; murderess. It was not spoken aloud; not in his lordship’s hearing. Not yet.