Rosamund
The next day I found Morwen in the herb garden behind the kitchen wing, grinding something in a stone mortar.
She didn't look up when I approached. She didn't need to because she had known I was coming the way she seemed to know every other thing.
"Sit down, Rosamund," she said, without lifting her eyes from the mortar.
"I don't want to sit down."
"You're carrying a child." She turned to me for a second, long enough to flash me a smile. "Your body needs rest even when your mind refuses it." She gestured to the wooden bench beside the garden wall. "Sit."
Grudgingly, I sat. My legs were trembling, and the walk from the house had winded me more than it should have, and the nausea was circling again. I swallowed hard and tried not to dwell on it.
Morwen set the mortar aside, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to face me. Her eyes were calm and clear, but I could see the sadness behind them as though she knew what I was going to say.
