"
"No," said Anne Scott firmly. "After twenty-nine years, I ought to
know my sister's hand."
"Don't come any closer." She raised the knife halfheartedly. "I don't
want to see it." But Anne Scott continued forward, held out the folded
sheet.
Mary's left hand could not stop the right. She took the page and held
it open against the angled sill. She read.
A single tear escaped her, then another, till at last she dropped the
blade and leaned heavily back against the stone. The tortured grip had
managed but five words, the last broken and trailing, but undeniable.
Mary,
I love you. Forgive
Anne Scott moved closer, and took the forlorn head to her shoulder.
Mary did not resist. She only wept, unable for a time to speak.
"But, if I do not avenge her. . .then her story is truly ended. She
lived, and died, for nothing. Oh, it is too terrible."
"No, Mary. Her life, and broken love, brought about your life, and a
love that is real. You must never forget that." The widow paused,
understanding at last.
"Listen to me, girl. You carry a part of her in yourself: in your
flesh, and in your seed.
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