Page 32 of The Dawn Chorus

‘Would that such a world existed,’ he said.

We sat there in the firelight for a very long time. The tunic burned. When the gramophone stopped playing, Warden made no attempt to wind it again. The silence was forgiving. The world I had painted might never exist, yet here – for a night, at least – it could.

He would linger in my thoughts when I left this place. I would always wonder. I would think of him as I would a story with no end, forever writing my own tales of what he had become.

‘I have a confession,’ I said. ‘Think they used to do those in churches. Since I might die tomorrow, I’d better absolve myself.’

Warden tilted his head. I took a small object from my backpack and tossed it to him.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t read it.’

Warden held up the small key to his journal. ‘You must enlighten me as to how you took this.’

‘I’m just a very impressive, competent person.’

With a tiny shake of his head, he placed it on the table. ‘So you are.’

The mantel clock gave a chime. We both looked at it, then at each other. I needed to start trying to sleep, but I might not have a chance to take my leave of him tomorrow.

‘Warden,’ I said.

‘Yes, Paige?’

‘I’m not going to say I’ll miss you, but meeting you was … an experience.’

‘As was making your acquaintance, Paige Mahoney.’

He snuffed the lamps so I could rest. I shifted a cushion under my head and closed my eyes.

By two in the morning, I was no closer to drifting off. Cold sweats soaked me. My heart thumped and my thoughts raced. In the rare moments my mind quietened, Nashira would burst into it and jolt me from the verge of a doze. Knife across the throat – possibly. Disembowelled – no, that would be too far, too disturbing for the emissaries to witness. Blood drained from my body – too messy. Head struck off my shoulders. Hanged.

I had seen the bodies that swayed on the Lychgate. The jut of their broken necks.

Warden had retired around midnight. He lay still in his bed. Heavy-eyed, I got up and used the tongs to move another log on to the embers of the fire. I stood by the window and looked at the stars. I drank another small measure of wine, hoping it would knock me out. And at last, I sank back on to the daybed and continued to stare at the ceiling.

The clock mocked me with its ticking. Finally, a hand on my shoulder made me turn my head.

Warden. He pressed a different goblet into my hands, half-full of a pale drink.

‘This will help,’ he said.

Too tired to ask questions, I sat up and knocked it back. It was rich and milky, with an herbal aftertaste.

‘You will be all right.’ He took the goblet away. ‘Sleep. You have earned it.’

I nodded and laid my head back down, warmer.

Whatever he had given me, it worked for a while. When I woke, the delicate glow of dawn tinted the room, and Warden was a silhouette by the window.

‘Wild oat.’

I stirred. ‘What?’

‘When you were fevered, you asked if I would plant wild oat on your grave.’ His voice was so low that it was little more than a tremor. ‘Why do its flowers speak to you?’

‘I like their meaning.The witching soul of music,’ I murmured. ‘Music seems as good a thing as any to die for, doesn’t it?’

Even though his face was almost hidden by the shadows, the cord whispered of understanding.