Vox Meditantis

You’ll find me amongst broken glass and frost-killed vines, speaking of cracked vessels and grocery lists – a most improper heir. I confess my weakness is dwelling on what’s gone. But ruins suit me better than drawing-rooms ever did.

I have restored my brother’s honour and broken the man who slandered him. Justice is done. Yet I stand at this ship’s rail with his bones below and know that vindication has bought me nothing but the right to grieve.

You have come seeking answers. I traffic in secrets, though perhaps not the variety you anticipate. These chains that bind me – choice or fate? Sit, if you dare. Listen. Then tell me whether you still require my services.

I have learned to open doors that were not meant for men like me. Three days on the Walsingham road, and I confess – though confession comes easier when it costs nothing – I am not the pilgrim I appear to be.

I come here Sundays, to where the old ferry used to cross. Don’t ask me why – I couldn’t tell you, not properly. The light goes early this time of year. Shows you things you’d rather not see.