The garden had been waiting for her. Not literally, of course—gardens do not wait, they merely persist, indifferent to the passage of human grief—but Clara Whitcombe felt that certainty in her bones the moment she pushed open the rusted iron gate and heard it groan, that low metallic complaint echoing through the overgrown path like a voice she almost recognized.
She had not intended to come...
The stone altar stood where the church had burned, a square of pale limestone in a field of trampled yarrow. There was nothing left of the nave but the memory of its shadow—iron ties on the oak beams, blackened ribs reaching across a sky too blue for what had happened. Clara Whitcombe came every morning at half-light, when the mist still pooled in the furrows and the world held its breath...
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