Chapter 29
OCTOBER 28TH, 1888
LUCY COLLINGWOOD PLUCKED THE DEAD ROSES AND MAIDENHAIR FERN FROM THE SLENDER blue and cream ceramic Turkish vase, a vase her father had carried back from Constantinople on his return from the Crimean War. It was one of her favourite pieces; she caressed the slender curves of the vases, tracing her fingers over the patterns, loving the subtlety of the blue and turquoise hand painted flowers, the delicacy of the brush strokes and the rich lustre of the glaze.
A thorn from one of the roses pricked her finger, a bright pinpoint of blood blooming on her fingertip like a spring bud. She sucked away the blood, the taste of it salt and coppery on her tongue. Red petals, fragile but still firm in shape and colour fell away from the head of the dead roses onto the ca
