Roses, script and wings on a seated woman

The Queen's rosarians have finally cut the black roses on the south terrace, the ones you used to say looked like thumbprints of ink. Mother kept the last cutting in a jar of rainwater on the sill, and it has bloomed twice since you left, its petals shaded grey at the edges as if someone had gone over them with a soft pencil. I told the steward it was a sign. He said it was damp.

The winged messenger came up from the coast on Tuesday, a clockwork bird with fine brass feathers that Master Halloran built for the harbour office. It landed on the wall with its wings folded and would not let anyone take the satchel until I read the name on its collar aloud. Your name was not on it. The word beneath was the one you and I carved into the chapel bench when we were nine, in the old scribes' hand: stay. I did not know the bird had come from you until I saw the scratch.

So I am writing back with the cutting. I have wrapped its roots in wet moss and tied a ribbon of your blue silk around the pot. If the wind holds, the bird will carry this to the harbour tomorrow. Come home before the petals drop, or at least send word that you have read this far.

Your sister, Ilse