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wondered what sacrifice Sir Bertram had made to get this plant. He must have loved his brother very much.
    “I know that all men end as food for plants,” the baron said. “But that woman put my brother here before his time, and I want her dead for it.”
    For all the conscious drama of the setting, his voice was rough with real grief. I stayed on my knees beside the grave and spoke gently.
    “You must have known Ceciel Mallory well. Can you tell us where she might have gone?”
    The old man snorted. “If I knew where she was I’d go after her myself—your redemption be hanged! I’ve no idea where she would go. I warned Herbert not to marry her, but he’d a stubborn streak and paid no heed. He never did, the old fool.” He sat beside the grave and patted the soft earth.
    “Why didn’t you want them to marry? I’d heard she was from a Gifted line.”
    “Oh yes,” said Sir Bertram bitterly. “Gifted with greed, deceit, and evil!” Then the passion deserted him, and his shoulders slumped. “I shouldn’t speak of the whole family thus, for the sister is our local herbalist, both mixer and talker, and a good woman. And the brother is an honest woodworker, with his own shop. In fact, ’twas Agnes, the sister, who confirmed that my brother had been poisoned—although she didn’t know whom I suspected when I asked her to examine his body.”
    A path wound up the slope to the burying grove. A party of mourners emerged upon it as we spoke, four men carrying the shrouded corpse in its sling. The widow, a black shawl covering her head and shoulders, walked behind. Glancing about, I saw a fresh pile of earth with four shovels in it, and a sapling in a bucket beside. They were far enough off that we shouldn’t intrude on each other.
    “I did oppose the marriage,” Sir Bertram continued. “Though I foresaw no tragedy such as this. ’Twas just…I thought him unwise to marry a woman so much younger than he, who must care only for his rank and wealth. My own Margery is dead five years.” He reached out and touched a tall sapling a few feet away. “But she gave me two fine sons, a daughter to gladden my heart, and many happy years. I miss her, always, but I’ve had more joy than most. Unlike poor Herbert. But as he said, if he wanted children he had to marry a younger woman. Mistress Ceciel was in her twenties, well old enough to know what she did.”
    The mourners moved up the hill; the corpse carriers staggering as the path steepened.
    “When was this, Sir? How long had they been married?”
    “Hmm, let me think. It must be over eighteen years now, for Father had just died. Herbert sought out Mistress Agnes for some petty complaint and met her sister there. He praised her only moderately, but I knew his attraction, for every week he returned to the herbalist’s house. When he left for Craggan Keep, he took Ceciel with him, as his wife.”
    “But why would she kill him after eighteen years of marriage?” Astonishment lifted my voice. It sounded loud in the quiet grove, and Sir Bertram glared at me.
    “I know not, and neither do I care; all I want is to see the bitch pay for it. For years I begged him to put her off. He said they did well enough, but I could see there was no love between them.”
    The mourners came toward us. They were close enough that I could see the widow now, fair and delicate, with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. I felt a surge of anger at the woman who had forced that kind of grief on Sir Bertram.
    “’Tis sad that no love came to them,” I agreed. “But surely that’s no cause to put off a wife of eighteen yea—”
    “’Twas not for that,” Sir Bertram said indignantly. “I realize that few marriages are blessed as mine was. I told him to put her off when we discovered her lie—when Herbert told me she was Giftless and barren.”

Fisk
     
    “G iftless and barren?” Sir Michael repeated.
    Once again I felt an unwilling sympathy for Lady Ceciel. No wonder she’d been