Page 73 of Bane Bloom

It will be more difficult for you, because of the circumstances of your birth, but should an opportunity of companionship ever come to you, I beg that you’ll not turn your back on it. You deserve to be loved, my beautiful, magical boy. And I believe one day a woman will come who will not think less of you for what you are.

Since you are reading this, I will have passed. But know that I will continue to watch over you as best I may, and I have no intention of going to my rest until I see you happy.

If you wish for an end to my meddling, you will do as I say.

I will love you always.

M

I’d sunk onto the desk chair without realizing it. I set the letter down gently, eyes still following the lines of its remarkable words. Thomas would never have left this for me. The shawl and the letter had come from her.

Unless I had sorely misread the situation, Prudence Bane saw me as an answer to her prayers.

I sat for some time at the window. After a day of clear skies, we were back to clouds and eerie calm—lake surface soft and glassy, peaks veiled in mist. Pockets of fog settled here and there over the water like steam from a bath. I could hear the grunts of the duck family along the shoreline, as well as the ever-present bleating of sheep.

Eventually hunger drew me out of my trance. I stood up, letting my gaze fall once more on the lovely shawl. It would be just the thing to brighten up my costume for the evening—if I dared wear it.

I gathered up my various books and tools before opening the door to go downstairs. I was met with the aroma of browning meat, and when I reached the kitchen, I found toasted bread, a few slices of gammon, and figs from the glasshouse. There was coffee in the pot, still warm. While I was touched that Thomas had thought of me, I’d rather have had Thomas himself.

After breakfast I had intended to work until the time came for Annie’s fete, and I did go to the glasshouse. But since reading Prudence’s letter, I simply could not master my thoughts. Instead of collecting samples, I wandered among the plants, discovering new wonders.

One such wonder was the Brugmansia. All of its blooms had opened overnight, and it was a sight to behold. The long, trumpet-shaped flowers hung like pendulums, so you had to lift one to get a good look at it—luminous, creamy white, very similar in shape to a thorn apple flower, but the size of a plate and with curling tendrils extending from the seams between the fused petals. There was something magical and haunted about it, even by the standards of the Bane glasshouse. A breeze came through an open window and caused the flower to wobble in my hand in an almost voluptuous way.

The plant’s plaque read:

Brugmansia, Angel’s Trumpet (Brazil)

Pain, lung complaints, wounds

Communication with the dead

My heart missed a beat. I closed my eyes and breathed in the flower’s sweet, pungent fragrance.

Prudence Bane wants me to be with her son.

I was envious over her loving interference, as well as touched by how desperately she wished him to be happy. Desperate enough to defy death. Yet surely she must see the difficulties.

Because spirits are known for their ability to be reasonable?

I laughed. In the muggy stillness, the sound had a dreamlike quality.

I had a sketchbook under my arm, and I opened it and began an illustration. I was still working when I heard the outer door open and looked up to see Thomas coming in. A ribbon of mist twined along the walkway between us. Thomas’s eyes followed the ribbon in the opposite direction until his gaze met mine.

“Good morning,” I said faintly, suddenly shy as my helpful brain offered up memories from the night we’d shared a bed.

Thomas smiled, and my heart fluttered. “It’s afternoon, lass.”

I raised my brows. “Is it?”

He closed the door behind him. “You lose track when you sketch.”

It wasn’t a question. He’d noticed. “Completely,” I agreed. He was carrying flowers, and I said, “More cowslips.”

He joined me beside the Brugmansia and held out the arrangement. It seemed to be a crown—or more of a circlet—made from the yellow and orange flowers, their stems tucked into a twined weeping willow branch.

“This is very pretty,” I said, taking it.

“Try it and see if it fits.”