“Chin up, lass,” he muttered, and then he was gone, the heavy door slamming to behind him. In the little parcel was fresh, good bread with grains in it, and a small around of cheese, and a handful of blackberries. I made it last, knowing my stomach might reject such fare after so long a time of hunger. I shared the crumbs of bread and cheese with the rats, thinking they might as well have a little enjoyment. After that I did not see this guard again, but his kindness warmed me. And I still remember the wonderful taste of that food, the mellow ripeness of the cheese, the tart juicy berries, the bread with its smell of open fields. Every mouthful.

The shirt grew. It was surprising how much I could get done if I forgot about the pain, if I slept only when utter exhaustion forced it, if I kept going in light and dark. Whether love or fear drove me hardest, I could not say. But the shirt took shape as day followed day, and night followed sleepless night, as the breezes that blew in my little window took on the scents of autumn. Leaves burning. Fruit boiling in the preserving pan. River mists rising in early morning chill. There were sounds, too. Men unloading root crops to be stored in the barn. It was harvesttime, and I had been at Harrowfield almost a whole year. Women arguing. Cart wheels on the gravel path. One morning, a lone horseman riding out very early. It mattered little. It seemed, now I was locked away, the household had reverted to its peaceful old routine. As if I had never been. For I had seen nobody, since that one visit from Lady Anne; nobody but my guards and Lord Richard. Perhaps I was forgotten.

The waiting could not last forever. There came a day when I heard the sound of well-shod hooves in the courtyard, and jingling harnesses, and men’s voices. And that afternoon, when Richard came, it was to gloat. The bishop’s representative had arrived at last, and it was time for me to account for myself before a formal hearing. That would take place tomorrow, and then…Richard was elated, almost beside himself with glee. I thought, why does he hate his nephew so much? That was what it was all about. The feeling of power excited him, that was certain, but there was a particular gleam in his eye, when he spoke Red’s name, that I thought bordered on madness. He made a mistake, that day. Carried along on the tide of anticipated victory, he said too much.

“Let’s talk about fire.” He watched slit-eyed as I bound the shirt’s hemline with awkward, fumbling movements of needle and thread. Sometimes my fingers grew numb and it was hard to make them obey me. “If you have the right materials, you can do interesting things with fire. You’d be surprised who I learned that from. So would your father, my dear.”