"Mother," Angelica's daughter says, touching her fingers to her own throat, "what happened to your neck?"
Angelica, kneeling in front of Thomas Rainsborough's grave, pauses, then takes one last swipe at the dirt that has encrusted itself in the letters of his name. She has tended to his grave as best she can, over the years; she can do this, at least, in memory of him, and of Sexby, whose body she never recovered, who lies in some traitor's grave miles away from her.
"My neck," she says, turning to look at her daughter, shielding her eyes against the afternoon sunlight. She has mostly forgotten about it, since the scars faded to from pink to white and she was able to leave off the scarves and high collars, but she supposes they must be gruesome to someone who does not know what happened.
"It's only that you never speak of it," her daughter says. "And I rather thought there must be a story somewhere there."
"Oh, there is," Angelica says. "But it is a long story, my darling." She lowers her hand, and as she does, she notices the soil under her fingernails, and she makes a half-hearted attempt to wipe them clean on her skirt.
In imitation of Angelica, perhaps, her daughter turns to squint up at the sun, still high in the sky. Her eyes are so like Sexby's, mostly grave and steady but – like Sexby's eyes, too – alight with mischief when the spirit takes her, like now, as she drops her chin down to look at her mother once more.
"Well, we have the time," she says.
Angelica smiles and stands, picking up the armful flowers she had left lying on the grass beside her and leaving them atop Thomas's grave. She touches the stone thoughtfully, and then takes her daughter's hand. "Very well," she says, and together they turn away towards home.
