My heart lurched. But—but—I broke my own rules and reached out to him, clutching his sleeve, gesturing wildly. My things—spin, weave—here? Bring here? He could not do this to me. He could not. His little smile was a triumph of hatred and satisfaction.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I must keep my part of the bargain. Too bad if you managed to finish this task. Can’t risk that, not if I’m going to get what I’ve been promised. Besides, you’ve been working much too hard, my dear. Take the day off. Enjoy yourself for a change.” He swept out the door, and the two guards followed him, locking it behind them.

Of all the days of my long time of silence, there are two that remain in my memory clear in every detail. One is the day I ran along the seashore in my blue dress, and heard the story of Toby and his mermaid, and got my wedding ring. The other is the day of the burning.

For a little, I stood at the window and watched them building it, a neat stack of ash logs that would burn hot without smoke, arranged around an upright central pole. They built it in the courtyard, far enough from the house so the fire would not spread uncontrolled; near enough to allow a fine view of the spectacle from the ground and from the windows above.

It was hard to believe Harrowfield had sunk to this. I could not imagine Lady Anne, or Megan, or Ben, or Margery, relishing such a sight. Most of Red’s men would turn their backs on such barbarity. But Red’s men were strangely absent. As the day passed, a steady line of Richard’s workers came and went, and the pyre took shape and was almost finished. You could see how the condemned one would be bound to the pole, her feet resting on a narrow ledge built there. You could see how the wood might be lit from the bottom, where plenty of dry twig had been wedged between the great logs, and how the flames would catch, and lick upward at first slowly, and then more rapidly, and…Richard was busy, directing a worker here, adjusting a faggot there; and when it was done to his satisfaction, he had two of his men carry out a small chest, which he unlocked with care. They had built a platform beside the fire, a makeshift structure that would surely be consumed itself once the flames rose to a certain point. Perhaps it was intended to burn, to add to the spectacle. Now Richard climbed the steps to this platform, and had the men set the chest beside him, and he reached in and drew out what appeared to be plain lengths of wood. He stepped neatly across to the pyre and began to place these with some care on the topmost tier, one here, one there, all the way around. He took his time, stopping frequently to admire his handiwork. They were, I supposed, the logs he had told me of so gloatingly, logs obtained from Eamonn of the Marshes, a traitor of our own people. Prepared by soaking in a carefully calculated mixture of special components. When those caught alight, then you would really see something.