“It’s here, Your Highness. Just look!” said the physician, smiling in stunned triumph as he held aloft the unexpectedly wet, dripping head of the long-dead King.
They buried Jamie Knox on a misty evening in the elm-shaded, medieval churchyard of St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate, in the shadow of the moss-covered wall that backed onto the yard of the Black Devil.
Afterward, Sebastian stood alone with Hero beside the stark, turned earth of the new grave, his hat in his hand and his head bowed, although he did not pray. He could hear the raucous call of a blackbird somewhere nearby, smell the pungent odor of damp loam and old stone.
He said, “I’ve been thinking of making a trip up to Shropshire, to take the mechanical nightingale to Knox’s grandmother.” There was no need to state the other reason-perhaps the main reason-for his desire to visit the place of Knox’s birth.
Hero looked over at him, her eyes solemn and knowing. But all she said was, “I’m sure she would like that.”
He reached out to take her hand. “Will you come with me?”
“If you want me to.”
“I want you,” he said, his throat tight with emotion as a gust of wind shuddered the trees overhead and sent a scattering of leaves spinning down to lie pale and shriveled against the cold, dark earth.