A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(47)

I sent the text two days ago.

Frustrated, I go into the south wing—already grating with the noise of construction at this early hour, and then find the door that leads to a large paved terrace looking out over the grounds. The trees and hills thwart the earliest light here, so there’s a kind of sleepy murk clinging to the estate still. It’s as romantic as it is disquieting, as if Thornchapel is reluctant to give up the night and its secrets.

To my left is the herb garden, nestled fairly close to the kitchen, and Estamond’s walled garden, which, as I recall, is home to some more eye-raising statuary—a boozy Dionysus, for one, and Leda with a swan nuzzling her breasts—their naughtiness snuck between the usual veiled women and small fountains. All of the statues are surrounded by crowds of lavender, lamb’s ear, and lady’s mantle, and hollyhocks of crimson, pink, and cream. And all of that is surrounded by high stone walls, interrupted only by a single wooden door.

In front of me are shallow stone steps leading down to a long, green lawn. The grass stretches down to a valley cradling the narrow River Thorne, and then it stretches back up again to an arresting sweep of hills. Elsewhere, the trees press in close to the house, as if wanting to protect it and keep it safe, but here, right here, I can glimpse heather and granite crags and the frowning bleakness that crouches in wait outside of the lush Thorne valley.

Again, I feel that curl of fascination, that hunger to gobble up all the desolation around me and pronounce it delicious. To tramp through wet grass and squint into the wind and feel so very, very alive in all the slumbering wastes around me. To find the tiny flecks of life in the midst of all the winter—tiny snowdrops and buttery celandine and sprays of blackthorn blossoms, new and fragile against the chilly air.

I've always been a summer girl. The girl who spends hours and hours at the pool, the girl who loves heat and thunderstorms and gardens, and trees so heavy with leaves that they whisper in even the barest breath of wind. But here . . . here I think I could be a winter girl too, I think I could learn to love the cold and the wet and the quiet.

I think of Saint’s winter eyes and sigh.

Though it’s warm enough that my sweater and jacket suffice, the air smells cold, and I remember Becket saying last night that we’d have snow this weekend. Determined to get my vitamin D while I can, I stride across the terrace and down the stairs to the crushed gravel path that leads to the maze.

I’m not alone when I get there.

I find Rebecca in a white trench and designer rain boots—as stylish as they are functional—with her iPad dangling from gloved fingertips. She’s staring at the maze like it owes her money.

“Good morning,” I say, tromping over. “Isn’t it . . . a little early to be working?”

“I needed to see it in the dark,” Rebecca says, not even bothering to look over at me. She’s still glaring at the maze. “And in the first light.”

“Oh,” I say, glancing over at her and then trying to see the maze as she’s seeing it—as a problem to be solved. But I can’t. It just looks mysterious and inviting and perfect to me. “Has it helped? To see it in the dark and in the sunrise?”

“No,” Rebecca says flatly. “Nothing’s helped.”

I sneak a look back over at her, wondering what I can do. Normally, Rebecca is all cool equanimity and analytical composure, and she takes everything in stride—with the possible exception of Delphine. Nothing ever seems to disrupt her confidence . . . apart from this snarl of hedge and gravel.

“I was going to walk through it,” I say. “Do you want to walk with me? And even if it doesn’t help, you’ll have at least spent some time with your best friend Poe.”

She sighs—but it’s not a Delphine Sigh, it’s a smiling sigh, which I think means I’ve won.

“Okay, Markham,” she says, waving me forward. “You’re right. Let’s go for a walk.”

The maze is still shrouded with gloom and shadows when we walk through the entrance. A marble Demeter and Persephone flank the entry arch cut into the hedge, their outstretched hands reaching for one another, their expressions joyful and their bodies frozen in the act of flying into a desperate, happy embrace.

“Estamond really liked her mythology,” I say as we start walking.

“I know,” Rebecca says. “And she certainly didn’t mind the raunchier myths either. For a Victorian.”

We turn our first corner, immediately turn again. It’s dark enough in here that I’m almost tempted to use the flashlight on my phone.

“Saint and I read that she was very improper, what with her sexy statues and inviting poets to come get drunk at her house and all.”

Rebecca laughs a little. “She sounds like someone we would like.”

“She does.” I stop at a junction and try to orient myself, but it’s hopeless. There are too many little dead ends and spurs, too many turns to keep track of our direction. Rebecca picks a path for us and we keep going. Neither of us knows the way, but with each corner, Rebecca seems to ease more and more, as if the very challenge of the maze is relaxing, as if the difficulty of it reassures her somehow. She leads us closer and closer to the center, choosing paths with startling ease.

I remember Auden telling me that Rebecca is a genius.

“I also read that this is very, very old,” I say, after several long minutes of us crunching over the crushed gravel. “Estamond renovated the maze and put in the statue at the center, but there was a Tudor maze here first. And before that, maybe a labyrinth.”