BooksBarbecue
Back The Rose Labyrinth Save as PDF
Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. THE ROSE LABYRINTH
  3. Titlepage
  4. Copyright page
  5. Dedication
  6. PROLOGUE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. EPILOGUE
  42. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  43. BIBLIOGRAPHY
  44. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  45. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lucy led him by the hand, toward the myriad reflections of light.

EPILOGUE

ST. GEORGE’S DAY, 1609

“AND BY SUCH MEANS AS THESE, GENTLEMEN—AND MOST BEAUTEOUS ladies—Love’s Lost Labours are at last, Won.” The raconteur takes an exaggerated bow.

Hands applaud, and laughter envelops the diners at the long trestle. Drinks are replenished in the candlelight. “We know you love these tight-jammed words, Will; but ‘New-York’?” one man asks. “And ‘Tick Tock’?” adds another. Derision breaks out again, and a man smoking a pipe offers his last word on it. “In truth, ‘Rapture ready’ is an excellent jest.”

“But, Will, when will it end? Will it ever end?” The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, seated at one end of the table, rises to hand him a richly embroidered piece of fabric. He carefully wraps it around a spice-scented Gallica rose, secures it with two locks of hair, one dark and the other fair, and packs them tenderly into what looks like a prop chest.

“And a red rose, plucked at midsummer,” he says to her. His voice wanders for a moment, then he turns to her with a face full of mobility and humor. “It wants a twelve-month and a day, and then t’will end. It Will, so. Though in this case, the true span of that ‘twelve-month’ is a mystery. A play sees a lifetime in an hour. Nine springs have passed since first we planned our play. Its final compass will defy a man’s measurement.”

“And a woman’s. For how long is the thread?” she challenges him, then points at an empty space at the head of the table. “What shall become of his heart? Shall it flourish where it is planted?”

“Mean you the heart? Or the white hart? Or the heart that is hers, that was his? Or the heart that was his…”—he throws his hand likewise in the direction of the empty chair—“…that will tell her where ’twas hid? Or the heart that was mine that you stole? Or the heart that is his, that he gives freely at midsummer? The heart that beats in her chest—or the heart in the chest that no longer beats? Well, truly, the one is a heart with wit and a will; the other a heart of Will, with a wit. And all are one.”

His dark-haired companion admonishes him with a finger, and he picks up. “Nay, lady. The doctor’s heart rests awhile in darkness, seeking only the light, beating apace below Wisdom’s breast. Yet it is nourished in repose, never truly lost among riddling words. It will leap once more into passion—its meaning clear. The ripeness is all.”