“Four months less eleven days.”
“Were you—with her?”
“In my arms. Childbed.”
“And?”
“The boy too. There is nothing now.”
Anne of Norton caught her breath.
“I think you’ll be glad of that,” she said after a while.
“Give me time, and maybe I’ll compass it. But not now.”
“You have your handwork and your art and—John—remember there’s no jealousy in the grave.”
“Ye-es! I have my Art, and Heaven knows I’m jealous of none.”