Lizzie giggled. “It’s nice having people—and dogs—you love in your life.”

“I’ll take that as a declaration,” Arthur said. “I love you too. But you know that—” He gave her a wry smile. “You can read me like a book.”

“I can’t promise to stop doing that,” Lizzie said, “but I reckon you understand me pretty well too, psychic gift or no psychic gift. Just don’t expect me to read the memory of stone if we visit any historical houses together,” she added. “I’m done with all that. You can buy a guide book like everyone else.”

27

Lizzie: Present Day

It was a beautiful autumn day in the Cotswolds. The sky was the pale translucent blue of a winter sea at dawn and the sun hung low over the horizon. The fallen beech leaves crunched beneath their feet as Lizzie and Arthur walked along the footpath to the Citrine Pool. There was the slightest hint of frost in the air.

“I expected the water to have a yellow tinge to it with a name like that,” Arthur said as they stood on the edge of the pool, “but it’s dark.”

“According to legend,” Lizzie said, “the waters turned black when they trapped Amy Robsart’s wandering spirit and confined it to the pool. Before that it had been a greenish-yellow colour because of the rare quartz in the rock.”

“I expect there’s a biological explanation for the change in water colouration,” Arthur said, “but it’s a good story.” He looked at her. “So this was where it happened. This was where the priests of Oxford locked Amy up for perpetuity.”

“Yes.” Lizzie shivered as a breath of air blew little eddies across the pond. “This is where they captured her and tried to bind her soul, and once she was trapped, the pattern kept on repeating.” She touched Arthur’s arm gently. “The pattern is broken now, but to finish this we need to set Amy’s spirit free. So many wrongs have been done to her in life and the afterlife. We’re closing the circle, showing her that it is over.”

Arthur looked around. The willows bent low over the edge of the pool and trailed their bare branches in the water. “It’s probably just my imagination,” he said, “but I don’t like it here. There’s a bad feeling in the air.”

“Yes,” Lizzie said. She’d felt it from the moment she had seen the dark water glittering in the low sun.

“I almost expect to see a flash of lightning and an apparition from a horror film,” Arthur said. He dug his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and hunched his shoulders. “Poor Amy,” he said. “What a horrible fate.”

Lizzie put down the cardboard box she had been carrying and lifted the lid. Inside was a wreath of leaves and flowers that she had created that morning with Avery’s help.

“It’s Quercus robur,” she said, in answer to Arthur’s quizzical look, “the English oak. It’s strong and beautiful.” She touched the petals of the pink flowers she had laid on top of the entwined oak stems and dark green leaves. “These are carnations,” she said. “They’re the descendants of the pinks and clove gillyflowers that people grew in Tudor times. They were a symbol of undying love.”