There had to be something she could do. She had driven the soldier away, even though the physical realities of blood and bone and muscle had no meaning here. Could not translate from one time to this other. But spirit?
Here was a place of spirit, the communion of souls. It was that the soldier had sensed, had felt.
Sophia slowly and deliberately took a deep breath, then exhaled. Nothing. She closed her eyes and, taking as much oxygen into her lungs as possible, she breathed out once more.
Again, nothing. She tried once more and, gradually, as she breathed in and out again, the room started to tilt and to shift and to pulse, until, suddenly, like a rush of wind in the trees, it was filled with movement.
Sophia opened her eyes.
The sensation of sound and shade and limitless space and as the roaring in the room grew louder, the candlestick was sent rolling across the floor, the goblet clattered into the wainscot. And now every piece of broken wood and trampled thread seemed part of the symphony. A drumming, notes between music, percussion and melody, calling whoever might be left to hear to this one corner of the west wing of the house.
Sophia kept breathing life into the room, out and in and out, like the song of the tide upon the shore, until at last she heard voices. From the corridor, a pool of light, getting stronger, and an old woman’s voice calling out a name.
Perdita. My lady, Perdita.
Sophia turned cold, remembering the inscription written above the door in the chapel: lost but not forgotten.
Now the woman, bent low and in the plain clothes of a servant, was standing on the threshold, a candle held in a trembling hand.
Instantly, the room was still. The air fell silent.
She’s here, quick.
The woman cried out at the sight of the coloured threads tangled and twisted on the floor, at the broken furniture, and the flame shook. Sophia called out again, even though she could not be heard, willing the old woman to turn and find the door and release the catch. But she didn’t move. She merely stood in the middle of the room, her old eyes clouded with confusion.
My lady, Perdita.
Sophia knew her part in the story was nearly at an end. The outline of the room was fainter than before, less distinct. Minster Lovell Hall was returning to its current state, leaving the past behind. Condemning the bride to her living tomb.
She’s here, here.
Then Sophia watched the expression on the old woman’s face change. Willing her to turn, to keep looking, to not give up. The woman shuffled across the room and bent down to pick something up.
Her yellow scarf, lying precisely where Sophia knew the hidden door to be. She didn’t understand how the woman could see it. It was caught on something, a nail or a splinter. She pulled again and, this time, the yellow square of material came free. At the same time, Sophia heard a click.
The door sprang open. A cry from within, then tears of delight and relief and gratitude. The old woman’s arms around the younger girl, helping her out into the room. Weeping, comforting, reassuring Perdita that no one was hurt, no one had been killed. The old nurse explaining that her husband had gone with the soldiers in exchange for his household being spared.
For the past hour, the servants had been searching the house and grounds. No one knew if she might also have been taken by the soldiers, or that she might have fled and fallen into the river in the dark, slipping through the ice. Then older servants remembered rumours of a hidden room within the house, known only to Lord Lovell.
Perdita inclined her head. Her husband had told her of the room, fearing the anger of the king, and sent her there. Had wanted to keep his new bride safe.
Sophia saw a shadow cross Perdita’s face and knew she was thinking of her husband, sacrificing himself to save his family. To save her. As she watched the old woman and her charge, their heads bent low, she realised their voices were becoming more faint. Little by little, their features were fading, their outlines almost transparent now.
She knew her time was done. The story had been rewritten and she had no further part to play. Sophia felt something shift inside her, a sense of the past drifting out of reach and her own time calling her back.
Then, at the very last moment before the connection was broken, Perdita lifted her head and looked straight to where Sophia was standing. And she smiled.
Sophia looked down at the yellow scarf in her hand, then slowly walked back down the stairs of the tower and out into the gardens that lay stretched out once more beneath the blue October sky. Minster Lovell Hall was in its ruined state again, no walls or doors or windows to be seen. The trees along the banks of the River Windrush were touched by the copper and burgundy hues of autumn. Soon, though not quite yet, they would start to lose their leaves.