The Ciphers of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood #2)(37)

After finishing, Maia thanked him for allowing them to help. He turned pink with embarrassment, as he always did when thanked or given a compliment. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes blinking, looking like he wanted to say something but could not find the words.

Maia was about to leave, feeling overwhelmed by the heaviness of her loss. She needed a good cry, she decided, and it would be better to go away and do it secretly, but something in Thewliss’s eyes forbade her to leave.

“Do you miss my mother too?” she asked him.

His eyes were red-rimmed. He took off his cap and crushed it in his hands, his snowy hair spilling about his head. He nodded vigorously.

Maia sighed and put her hand on his shoulder. “You are a good man, Thewliss. You built her a wonderful garden. I am sure it helped her bear the loneliness. Thank you.”

A tear trickled down his cheek. He looked down at his muddy boots, shifting uncomfortably. Then he pulled off his dirty gloves and stuffed them in his belt, reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a linen napkin. At first she thought he was going to blow his nose on it, but he handled it as delicately as he had the fragile roots. He slowly unfolded it and she saw it was an embroidered kerchief. He handed it to Maia.

“What is this?” she asked, taking it. Each corner was decorated with a design of little flowers and vines. It was beautifully wrought, intricate and lovely. Maia stared at the tiny flowers. “Did my mother . . . ?”

Thewliss nodded. “Never dared wipe my nose on it,” he mumbled. He stared her in the eyes. “You can have it.”

Maia held it like a relic, her amazement too great for words. Her mother had fashioned this small gift of affection and appreciation for the aging gardener. It was his only reminder of her mother. The way he had handled it showed it was his greatest treasure.

“I cannot take this,” Maia said huskily. “It is yours. She gave me something that I have treasured. Her tome. That is treasure enough. This was made for you, for a tender gardener.” She folded it reverently and then put it back in his hand. She wanted to kiss his snowy brow, an instinctual act, but she caught herself, realizing that to do so would be as grievous as murder.

She could never, ever kiss anyone again. Something about this simple moment—the innocent impulse that might have led to disaster—brought the harsh reality of her situation home to her. Her grandmother’s words echoed through her head: Your kiss would be fatal to your husband or even your children.

She took Suzenne’s arm, and together they left Thewliss in the Queen’s Garden and started off across the grounds together, their shoes crunching in the fresh snow. Maia’s feet were cold, and she longed to be in the shelter of their room.

“Thewliss was chatty today,” Suzenne said, her tone teasing.

Maia sniffed and nodded, trying to let her friend cheer her, trying not to drown in her thoughts. The regret in her heart was as heavy as a cold iron anvil. She could never be rid of it permanently; she could only move it from corner to corner.

“I cannot imagine how you are feeling,” Suzenne said, squeezing her middle. “Today was going to be hard, no matter what.”

“I know,” Maia said. “That is why I thought about helping Thewliss in the garden. The work was helpful, but it stirs memories. The knave sheriff of Mendenhall gets to attend my mother’s funeral and I cannot. Some things are just not fair, are they?”

“Indeed not. Do you want to go warm ourselves by the Leering in our room? Maybe we can help someone else so you can keep your mind off it? Look, there is Celia.”

Maia was impressed by how much Suzenne had changed in so short a time. She had stopped wearing her jewelry and fancy gowns so much, choosing instead to favor high-quality garments of the plainer variety. She had offered many times to let Maia wear her gowns, but Maia felt it was important to maintain her disguise as a wretched.

“She is crying,” Suzenne said, her voice concerned.

When Maia looked closer, she saw Celia kneeling by the laundry trough, her face buried in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking.

“Celia, what is wrong?” Maia asked, wondering if Maeg had been rude to her again. She looked up when she heard their voices and almost ran to them.

The girl was trembling with emotion. “Oh, Maia, Suzenne! My heart is breaking.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Maia gave her a fierce hug, trying to calm her.

“I just read the sheriff’s latest messages from the Crown.” She swallowed, hiccupping. “I must tell the Aldermaston and his wife, but they are overseeing the interment ceremony.” She tried drying her eyes on her sleeve. “Poor Dodd! Poor Dodd!” She broke down weeping again.

“Celia, what is it? What has happened?” Suzenne implored with new urgency, squeezing the other girl’s arm. “Tell us!”

Celia sniffled, trying to master herself. “I thought . . . hic . . . that during the ceremony would be a good time. No one was around. I read the messages.” She sniffled. “Suzenne, the Prices have been executed. All of the men. The father first of all. Dodd is the only son left, and he is the youngest. I thought . . . I truly thought the Medium would prevent this from happening.” Her shoulders shook again as fresh tears spilled out. “Why would the Medium let them die?”

Maia’s pain at losing her mother was overshadowed at that moment by the gravity of Dodd’s loss. The ache of it made her gasp and her mind spun with tortured rage. Her father had done it. Her father had executed so many innocent men, guilty of no crime but the so-called treason of refusing to abandon their consciences at his command. How could a maston do such a thing? This was murder. There was nothing else to call it.