‘I wonder whether funerals are black because of that,’ said Charles. ‘I think there’s something in Latin about Black Death knocking the back of the horseman with an even foot.’
‘I always did think Latin was nonsense,’ said Charlotte.
Their eyes were quite tired of the yellow paper and the long s’s before the great idea occurred to them. It was Caroline who had it.
‘Let’s look up Roses,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the rose is Rupert’s lucky flower. Perhaps if we made a conserve, or a decoction, or a tincture or something——’
‘We promised not to give any one anything for their insides. I’ve just remembered,’ said Charles. ‘How rotten!’
‘Never mind—let’s look! We’ll make it a spell as well. Out of the Language Of. I expect it’ll work all right. Find Rose.’
They found Rose—pages and pages of it. The author of the Herbal had plenty to say. As he himself put it: ‘If I ſhould ſet down here all uſes of the roſe my booke would be already too long.’
But after diligent search they found out that the rose is under the dominion of Venus.
‘That’s all right,’ said Charles. ‘She had a little boy of her own. So she’d know.’
Also, that the decoction of roses ‘is proper to cool the heat of fevers.’