“It’s an ash,” he said, looking up. “Like Yggdrasil – isn’t that what the Norsemen called the tree which holds up the world?”

“Well, well,” she said, turning his way so that her breast brushed against his ribcage. “Such expertise. I see that I am the one who has been deluded, Mr. Madero.”

“Yesterday we agreed on Mig,” he said.

“That was before you were expelled from the garden,” she said.

“No. I think that you were still Migging me in the churchyard. I was certainly Freking you.”

“Well, I shouldn’t like to be thought of as the sort of woman who would let herself be Freked without Migging in return,” she said, with a mockery of coquetry which was still coquettish. “So, Mig, I’ve let you see what’s important to me. Now I’ll shut up and give you a turn. What is it that makes your life worth living?”

He recalled her warning – never complain, never explain – but he felt a strong impulse to tell her everything about himself. Why not, when he’d unburdened himself so comprehensively to Sam Flood?

He began to talk. She was a good listener. He recalled from his Shakespeare how Desdemona with a greedy ear devoured Othello’s discourse, and while Frek showed no sign of weeping, or offering for his pains a world of kisses, she did sigh sympathetically from time to time, and looked deep into his eyes, and once – it was as he described his fall from the mountain – she put her hand on his knee and dug her fingers in deep.

Even if in the beginning he’d purposed any restraint, by the time he reached the latest end of his tale, all thought of keeping anything back had fled. He told her about the journal, his translation of it, and even gave the gist of Max’s information and advice.

When he finished speaking, he felt that they were in such a state of emotional intimacy, its physical counterpart could only be a gauzy thickness away.

He shifted slightly on the bench and put his arm along her shoulders as if to steady himself. She turned her head toward him. Her mouth was slightly open, he could see the glimmer of her small white teeth, the pink moistness of her parted lips.

He moved his head toward her.

She said, “Now that was really fascinating. I’m almost sorry I have to go.”

And stood up.

He looked up at her, bewildered and frustrated. Was this some part of the courting ritual he’d simply never reached? So far as jousting with the opposite sex went, he might look like a mature man of the world, but his learning curve had stuttered to a halt at the age of sixteen.

He heard himself saying foolishly, “But you can’t go yet.”

“Can’t I?” She spoke the words as if this were some proposition in logic she needed to examine. “Why?”

“Because… because there are things I need to discuss. About what I’ve told you… what I should do next.”

“I’m not clear,” she said. “Are you asking for a general comment, or a specific recommendation as to how you should proceed?”

“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” He was speaking wildly, like an inarticulate teenager. He pulled himself together. “Your family and mine are both concerned here. Your father is at least entitled to see the words that Father Simeon wrote. But I suspect that if I made a direct approach, he would set the dogs on me.”

“No worry there, then. Our dog is not only a crook, but a very old Labrador who might attempt to lick you to death, but no more.”

The light tone should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. If anything it was slightly condescending.

He stood up, his bad knee stiff as an old oak root, and he looked her straight in the face.

“Perhaps in that case I should go to the Hall now and explain what has happened.”

“No point. Daddy’s out and I expect my grandfather’s taking his morning nap.”

“His nap? Oh, we mustn’t disturb old Mr. Dunny’s morning nap, must we!” he said savagely. “I can guess how much he looks forward to it.”

She looked at him with a faint smile and said, “If you’re referring to his dalliance with Mrs. Collipepper, yes, I believe he does look forward to it. In any case, it’s practically a family duty. Her mother and her grandmother were housekeepers at the Hall too. It’s one Woollass tradition I don’t think Daddy’s concerned himself with, but in these matters Grandfather’s an absolute stickler.”

More shocked than he cared to show at this frankness, Mig said, “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. But I too have a strong sense of family which he might understand. I want to do the right thing about Simeon’s journal and I’m sure if I could just sit down and talk with your father or grandfather, we could come to some accord.”

She thought about this then nodded. “You may be right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“And what about you?” he asked, unable to let her go without having their own relationship spelled out clearly. “I thought we were reaching some accord, too.”

“I think we did,” she said. “I certainly found your story interesting, if a touch sad.”

“Sad?”

“Yes. It seems to me that a vivid imagination, a rather unfocused religiosity, and a hysterical medical condition have combined to make you interpret a couple of simple coincidences as a message from God. Which is indeed sad in a man of intellect and education. You’re not put out, I hope? I know my directness can sometimes offend.”

“No, no,” he said, trying for control. “I suppose I had hoped for something a little more empathic from someone as immersed in an ancient myth system as you seem to be.”

“You shouldn’t confuse immersion with absorption,” she smiled. “I am a scholar. My interest is primarily academic. Yours should be also. Personal involvement may add a spice to research, but it should never be allowed to get in the way of objective truth.”

“Truth,” he echoed. “A young man who was one of my ancestors was shipwrecked on these shores and treated monstrously – you’ll admit that as true, I suppose?”

“You forget, I haven’t studied the document myself,” she said. “But, accepting your interpretation as accurate, you shouldn’t ignore the fact that he was also treated with more kindness and compassion than an enemy of the state might have expected in those troubled times. The Gowder woman saved his life and offered him all the comforts a woman can offer a man. His life was saved a second time by my own ancestors, at no inconsiderable risk to themselves. Would an English sailor shipwrecked in Spain have received the same treatment, I wonder?”

“I don’t think there’s much point in comparing brutalities,” he said.

“Of course not. In any case, behavior must always be judged in the social context in which it occurs. I see you have the Swinebank Guide with you. His take on the events at Foulgate makes interesting reading, don’t you think? There are two sides to everything. Now I must be off. I’ll talk to my father and grandfather and ring you later. I can’t offer you more than that, Mig, believe me. Good day. I’ll be in touch.”

She walked away, upright, unhurried, a column of pure white light in a world of shifting colors. He sank back down on the rough bench and watched her go. Into his mind, uninvited, dropped Winander’s comment yesterday about the marble angel.

Cool even in the sunlight.

The sun dappling his bare arms did not seem so warm now. A winged insect settled on the back of his hand. It was a pale green and translucent white, a lacy fragile thing.

But when he brushed it off, it left a red mark on his skin.