So he has sent you at last, Edwin said. Is it the hour?
Father Cuthbert, the king's chaplain and the only man still permitted to descend into the rock beneath the hall, set his lantern on the sill of the grate and lowered himself to the bench. He was old, older than the memory of him that Edwin carried, and the scent of the upper world clung to his robes — woodsmoke, wax, the green breath of...
The boarding house dining room was full that last September, the long oak table stretched to its limit with men in stiff collars and women in dark serge, the air thick with the steam of boiled beef and the murmur of polite, desperate conversation. Mrs. Holloway presided from the head, her silver hair pinned tight, her smile a fixed and brittle thing, and beside her sat her son, Peter, eleven...
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