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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

In one smooth motion he slid into his leather jacket, pocketed the phone, and secreted the postcard against his chest, right next to the treasured document that had sent him spinning into Italy for the summer on a frantic research quest. He had started assembling some of the answers he’d come looking for, but a continuum of questions seemed to be opening up even now around him, and a sense of mystery deepened. He stepped into dusty boots and swiftly closed the house, depositing the key in its hiding place. He didn’t even chamois down the bike, just pulled on his helmet, took his gloves from the tank bag, and swung into the saddle. He’d need fuel for the forty or so miles to Chartres.

2

SEPTEMBER 19, 2003, CHELSEA, LONDON

LUCY BLINKED IN THE STARK EQUINOX SUNSHINE, WHICH WAS FILTERING through heavy leaves. She was sitting under a mulberry tree of impeccable lineage at the Chelsea Physic Garden, pleased just to be there. The tree was fruiting, and a heavy scent permeated the air. She’d felt better this morning, and her doctors had cautiously agreed she could go for “a gentle walk,” to pass some of the time that they understood seemed so strangely suspended for her, as long as she rested often. She had walked a little too far really; but she wouldn’t tell them that, and anyway, it was so good to get away from the confines of the building, where your feelings and emotions were common property, and just have some private time alone with her thoughts. These days were a miracle, and she planned to be out in them as much as possible.

Patiently awaiting a heart operation too serious and potentially dangerous to think deeply on, and ready for transfer to Harefield at the first sign that it might be possible, she felt today newly alive, thrilled by the beauty of autumn. Keats was right: autumn was the season England did best. She was lulled by the moan of bees and lawn mowers and by a child somewhere, and especially the absence of traffic noise.

And she was contemplative and surprisingly hopeful on this bright September morning, reading from a well-thumbed volume of John Donne’s poems: “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning.”

As virtuous men pass mildly away

And whisper to their souls, to goe,

While some of their sad friends doe say,

The breath goes now, and some say, no:

So let us melt, and make no noise…

MARCH 28, 1609, ON A BEND IN THE RIVER, CLOSE TO LONDON