Mirra sat cross-legged on the grass in the abbey’s sun-drenched inner garden, weaving a chain of bright summer flowers. Her slender fingers twined the blossoms together, and the sun burnished her flaxen hair that hung about her face as she bent over her task. Thick dark lashes framed gentle blue-green eyes in a serene, delicately featured face.
Tallis, who sat beside her, picked up her garland and resumed her work. This morning, at the celebration for Mirra’s sixteenth birthday, she had watched Mirra opening her gifts, wondering how happy she would be if she knew what was in store for her. Everyone knew but Mirra, and that seemed so unfair. The secrecy puzzled her, for surely it would be better if Mirra could prepare for what lay ahead? She contemplated the wreckage she held and sighed again, trying to weave a bright yellow daisy into the disaster.