the day with tanning, dying, snipping, trimming and sewing the lines of a hand. Why had this young man not gone into glove-making with his father?
Smoke was in the air. A black coil twisted into the blue sky. More brush fires. It was Michaelmas, Saint Michael the Archangel’s feast day and one of the few celebrations the queen allowed. There seemed a sordid vengeance from above, for the crops that had been salvaged from the drought were now in danger of being consumed by flames. In the lastfortnight, three leas of wheat, ready for reaping, had been swallowed by fires. The farm laborers, the stable hands and the kitchen help from Lufanwal and the neighboring estates had battled the smoldering stalks through the night. They had worked in a long chain, passing leather buckets from the well—the barrels were empty of rainwater and the ponds and river had dried up. Everyone lived in fear that timber or thatch would catch fire and the barns and huts, like the uncut hay, would burn. But they had managed to contain the embers. The men and women had returned from the fields at dawn, coughing, their faces, arms and hands dark with soot.
Katharine pulled the window shut against the acrid smell. There had been hope of rain a few days past, the sky growing dim with clouds, and then after a tease of a shower the sun had come out and left the land gasping for more. Would the ancient roots of Lancashire shrivel and die and the soil become sand? She had read of deserts in faraway lands—in an account by Raleigh or Drake or Hawkins, she couldn’t recall—where waves of sand stretched as far as the eye could see and shot up as high as mountains.
She sat down with Spenser’s Faerie Queene on her lap. Her fingers drummed the amber-and-gold-leathered cover. She had wanted to read but now had no inclination for it. In a whirl, she tossed the book on the table, descended the stairs two at a time, picked up her skirts and jumped over the last three steps—flew, really. She pushed the door, the hinges groaning in complaint; as soon as the sluggish oak was behind her, she hurried over the cobblestones and through the archway to the back garden. Her journey, she tried to convince herself, was for the sole purpose of discovery. She wanted to find out if he had picked up Sidney’s poems, and she wanted to see what he was making.
Once she rounded the corner, she bridled herself, forcing a walk, and she took her breathing down, so her bodice rose and fell gently instead of heaving from the passion of exercise. She strolled, as if she’dbeen intent on that: strolling, not discovering. He was focused, but she knew he knew she was nearing; there was a certain tilt to his head, a self-conscious way in which he held himself, always an actor on a stage: his hands his soliloquy. He had cut the feathers off a goose quill. Now he was sharpening the end. The hairs on the back of his hand were fine, his fingers surprisingly long and graceful, not thick or rough, and his fingernails were clean.
She stood over him, but he did not look up until he stuck the nib in his mouth. With the fashioned feather between his lips, he raised his eyes to hers and smiled. He had a strong chin. He pulled the quill from his mouth and examined the nib. It would take a master like Nicholas Hilliard to draw lips so perfectly shaped: they were full but not feminine.
“Ever make your own pen?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Thought not.”
She didn’t want to be drawn into his game of words. Every time they met, it was riposte after parry, and she said things she never usually said, in ways she didn’t usually say them. He compromised her tongue.
“My father taught me how to make a quill before I knew how to write,” he continued. “Always plenty of geese. Ink harder to find. Had to make that, too. Ever make ink?”
“No.”
“You missed one of the joys of youth. We were wizards or witches making a potion: eye of newt, tongue of dog . . . burnt wool or
Smoke was in the air. A black coil twisted into the blue sky. More brush fires. It was Michaelmas, Saint Michael the Archangel’s feast day and one of the few celebrations the queen allowed. There seemed a sordid vengeance from above, for the crops that had been salvaged from the drought were now in danger of being consumed by flames. In the lastfortnight, three leas of wheat, ready for reaping, had been swallowed by fires. The farm laborers, the stable hands and the kitchen help from Lufanwal and the neighboring estates had battled the smoldering stalks through the night. They had worked in a long chain, passing leather buckets from the well—the barrels were empty of rainwater and the ponds and river had dried up. Everyone lived in fear that timber or thatch would catch fire and the barns and huts, like the uncut hay, would burn. But they had managed to contain the embers. The men and women had returned from the fields at dawn, coughing, their faces, arms and hands dark with soot.
Katharine pulled the window shut against the acrid smell. There had been hope of rain a few days past, the sky growing dim with clouds, and then after a tease of a shower the sun had come out and left the land gasping for more. Would the ancient roots of Lancashire shrivel and die and the soil become sand? She had read of deserts in faraway lands—in an account by Raleigh or Drake or Hawkins, she couldn’t recall—where waves of sand stretched as far as the eye could see and shot up as high as mountains.
She sat down with Spenser’s Faerie Queene on her lap. Her fingers drummed the amber-and-gold-leathered cover. She had wanted to read but now had no inclination for it. In a whirl, she tossed the book on the table, descended the stairs two at a time, picked up her skirts and jumped over the last three steps—flew, really. She pushed the door, the hinges groaning in complaint; as soon as the sluggish oak was behind her, she hurried over the cobblestones and through the archway to the back garden. Her journey, she tried to convince herself, was for the sole purpose of discovery. She wanted to find out if he had picked up Sidney’s poems, and she wanted to see what he was making.
Once she rounded the corner, she bridled herself, forcing a walk, and she took her breathing down, so her bodice rose and fell gently instead of heaving from the passion of exercise. She strolled, as if she’dbeen intent on that: strolling, not discovering. He was focused, but she knew he knew she was nearing; there was a certain tilt to his head, a self-conscious way in which he held himself, always an actor on a stage: his hands his soliloquy. He had cut the feathers off a goose quill. Now he was sharpening the end. The hairs on the back of his hand were fine, his fingers surprisingly long and graceful, not thick or rough, and his fingernails were clean.
She stood over him, but he did not look up until he stuck the nib in his mouth. With the fashioned feather between his lips, he raised his eyes to hers and smiled. He had a strong chin. He pulled the quill from his mouth and examined the nib. It would take a master like Nicholas Hilliard to draw lips so perfectly shaped: they were full but not feminine.
“Ever make your own pen?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Thought not.”
She didn’t want to be drawn into his game of words. Every time they met, it was riposte after parry, and she said things she never usually said, in ways she didn’t usually say them. He compromised her tongue.
“My father taught me how to make a quill before I knew how to write,” he continued. “Always plenty of geese. Ink harder to find. Had to make that, too. Ever make ink?”
“No.”
“You missed one of the joys of youth. We were wizards or witches making a potion: eye of newt, tongue of dog . . . burnt wool or
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