really believed that she’d seen the spirit of her husband?”
“Yes. The Methodists call that a visitation .”
The two rode on silently, and finally she said, “Dylan, do you know what a collective noun is?”
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s the name that identifies a group. All animals have such names. A herd of cows, a flock of sheep, a pack of wolves.”
“And that’s a collective noun?”
“Yes, and you know what a group of ravens is called?”
“No, I don’t.”
“A conspiracy,” she said. “A conspiracy of ravens is what we’ve just seen.”
Dylan suddenly felt a chill. He looked up at the ravens: dark, ugly birds, scoring the air with their harsh cries. “I hate those birds,” he muttered. He turned, his eyes fixed on her. “Do you think it means something, Lady Serafina?”
“I don’t believe in premonitions,” she said almost violently. “It was an accident.”
Dylan said nothing, but the two of them watched as the ravens circled the sky uttering harsh, guttural cries. He saw Serafina watch as they planted their black imprints against the November sky, and he knew, despite what she said, that Lady Serafina Trent did believe in premonitions.
SEVEN
F ather Francis Xavier moved about the small greenhouse, pleased with the vivid greens, reds, and blues. He liked the colours so much because they contrasted violently with the grim, grey world of Brixton Prison for Women. Father Xavier served as a volunteer chaplain in the prison. He was unpaid and was content with the small amounts given to him by the Catholic Church. He had managed to create—inside the prison confines of concrete, steel, and misery—a small world of his own, a little cosmos that burgeoned with fragrant flowers and shimmering colour.
Father Xavier suddenly smiled as he thought of his battles with the warden, James Hailey, who had no fear either of God or man. When Father Xavier requested permission to create the greenhouse, Hailey grunted and scowled. “You’re here to save the miserable souls of these women, Father, not to grow petunias.” He nevertheless gave grudging permission to the priest.
The small priest was not built on a heroic scale. He was short, rotund, with a baby face that did not show his age. He smiled often, despite the miserable world that he moved in, and had a vibrant spirit within his aging body. Now as he moved among the fragile flowers, savoring their fragrance and delighting in the rich dignity of their colours, he paused before his pride and joy—a graceful, long-stemmed crimson rose. He plucked off a dead leaf and added a pinch of fertilizer from a paper bag. He stood back to admire the elegant flower.
Suddenly he heard his name being called, and he turned to face Warden Hailey, who had stepped inside the small greenhouse. Inmates and guards alike called Hailey the Great Stone Face, and he had a violent temper that he struggled to control. He was a short man, no more than five feet seven, but his huge shoulders and limbs and deep chest gave him the appearance of a wrestler. People tended to move out of his way when he entered a room.
“Good morning, Warden.”
“Morning,” Hailey grunted. His face was set in a perpetual scowl, and he said without preamble, “You know Old Meg?”
“Margaret Anderson. Yes, of course.”
“Well, she’s dying. Better get down there,” he said, a rare grin creasing his meaty lips, “and offer up a few prayers that will get her into heaven. Not that there is a heaven,” he added finally. The warden seemed to take delight in mocking the priest’s faith. For several years now he had tried his best to shake the chaplain’s calm but without success. Now he took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, examined the result, then shrugged and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. “Poor woman’s got the notion that there’s pie up there in that sky. She thinks she’s going to sit around plucking on a harp for the rest of eternity.” He
“Yes. The Methodists call that a visitation .”
The two rode on silently, and finally she said, “Dylan, do you know what a collective noun is?”
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s the name that identifies a group. All animals have such names. A herd of cows, a flock of sheep, a pack of wolves.”
“And that’s a collective noun?”
“Yes, and you know what a group of ravens is called?”
“No, I don’t.”
“A conspiracy,” she said. “A conspiracy of ravens is what we’ve just seen.”
Dylan suddenly felt a chill. He looked up at the ravens: dark, ugly birds, scoring the air with their harsh cries. “I hate those birds,” he muttered. He turned, his eyes fixed on her. “Do you think it means something, Lady Serafina?”
“I don’t believe in premonitions,” she said almost violently. “It was an accident.”
Dylan said nothing, but the two of them watched as the ravens circled the sky uttering harsh, guttural cries. He saw Serafina watch as they planted their black imprints against the November sky, and he knew, despite what she said, that Lady Serafina Trent did believe in premonitions.
SEVEN
F ather Francis Xavier moved about the small greenhouse, pleased with the vivid greens, reds, and blues. He liked the colours so much because they contrasted violently with the grim, grey world of Brixton Prison for Women. Father Xavier served as a volunteer chaplain in the prison. He was unpaid and was content with the small amounts given to him by the Catholic Church. He had managed to create—inside the prison confines of concrete, steel, and misery—a small world of his own, a little cosmos that burgeoned with fragrant flowers and shimmering colour.
Father Xavier suddenly smiled as he thought of his battles with the warden, James Hailey, who had no fear either of God or man. When Father Xavier requested permission to create the greenhouse, Hailey grunted and scowled. “You’re here to save the miserable souls of these women, Father, not to grow petunias.” He nevertheless gave grudging permission to the priest.
The small priest was not built on a heroic scale. He was short, rotund, with a baby face that did not show his age. He smiled often, despite the miserable world that he moved in, and had a vibrant spirit within his aging body. Now as he moved among the fragile flowers, savoring their fragrance and delighting in the rich dignity of their colours, he paused before his pride and joy—a graceful, long-stemmed crimson rose. He plucked off a dead leaf and added a pinch of fertilizer from a paper bag. He stood back to admire the elegant flower.
Suddenly he heard his name being called, and he turned to face Warden Hailey, who had stepped inside the small greenhouse. Inmates and guards alike called Hailey the Great Stone Face, and he had a violent temper that he struggled to control. He was a short man, no more than five feet seven, but his huge shoulders and limbs and deep chest gave him the appearance of a wrestler. People tended to move out of his way when he entered a room.
“Good morning, Warden.”
“Morning,” Hailey grunted. His face was set in a perpetual scowl, and he said without preamble, “You know Old Meg?”
“Margaret Anderson. Yes, of course.”
“Well, she’s dying. Better get down there,” he said, a rare grin creasing his meaty lips, “and offer up a few prayers that will get her into heaven. Not that there is a heaven,” he added finally. The warden seemed to take delight in mocking the priest’s faith. For several years now he had tried his best to shake the chaplain’s calm but without success. Now he took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, examined the result, then shrugged and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. “Poor woman’s got the notion that there’s pie up there in that sky. She thinks she’s going to sit around plucking on a harp for the rest of eternity.” He
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