Rico was behaving in a more friendly manner now. She could intuit the difference, intuit the bird. She was beginning to believe she could read his mind, his tiny brain. Or was it his behaviour she was reading?

She managed the chores efficiently; she could be quick now that she had a better grasp of what she was supposed to do. She had also noticed a large jade plant in the bay window at the end of the kitchen, and she decided she’d better do something about that. Cecilia Grand had made no mention of caring for the jade. There was no other plant in sight. The jade was spindly, rooted in a large clay pot. At that moment, a wide beam of sun shone through the window and illuminated one side of the plant, ennobling it somehow. Yes, it took on a noble look, and in that instant, Gwen saw its beauty. She poured a measure of water to the dry cracked soil, and with that nurturing gesture, she took on the care of the jade.

Rico continued to wander around the floor of the kitchen, poking his beak into corners. She brought out her sheets of paper, her mother’s manuscript, and sat at the table again.

“Listen up, Rico. I’m back to Layamon. You like to listen; I know you do. Where else can such beautiful language be found? I’ve already told you about my mother writing this paper long ago. She was a clever woman. She was curious about the vicissitudes of history. Someday, Rico, I’m going to travel to a rocky, windy place in Cornwall called Tintagel Castle, in the land of King Arthur. My mother never got there, but I will. Yes, I will.”

Rico’s head pivoted at what appeared to be an awkward angle. He looked toward the ceiling and feigned indifference.

She realized, after telling Rico about Tintagel, that she did, in fact, have the money to go there. The money Brigg had been hoarding was now hers, and she could do with it what she liked.

“Okay, Rico, I’ve just made a decision—a big decision in your presence. Now let’s get to it. In this passage, King Arthur is battling the treacherous Mordred. I don’t think you’ll be bored. Think of the heaviness of all that armour. The knights were doomed before they stepped into it. Or however they dressed. Maybe somebody fastened it onto them, or over them, in sections.”

She began to read: “They encountered . . . and smote on the helms. Fire outsprang. Spears splintered. Shields gan shiver. Brave Arthur saw knights in their armour, drowned in the water as steel fishes, their scales like gold-dyed shields. Shafts brake in pieces. Heads were split . . . the sword at the teeth stopt.”

Gwen was not a violent woman. She thought about the words “sword at the teeth stopt” and admitted that in the past, she had imagined, had considered violence. She’d imagined violence being done to her, and she’d imagined herself committing violence. But that was before, when Brigg was alive. The interminable days and nights during which she’d been fragile, close to the edge where he had pushed her. She would have—if someone had placed a sword in her hand—she would have liked to smite Brigg through his skull until the sword at his teeth stopt.