“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. The story never ends, it only changes characters. And those who have left something beautiful behind them, never die. They live on in the thoughts, the hearts, the very lives of those who loved them.” And the woman found that she too was crying, the most profound tears of her life. For in this, most unlikely of moments, she had seen beyond the grave, and touched the face of God.
“When you bear a child of your own, you will understand just how very much that means. For now, my sad Mary, just cry. Cry, and love her.”