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Extract from the manorial roll of Ashchurch.

Translated from the Latin, Anno Domini 1238.

Edmund of Bredon and Avis his wife continue to hold the two acres of arable land granted upon their marriage, together with the customary rights belonging thereto.

For the matter of succession, the children of the aforesaid Edmund and Avis are recorded as follows:

Walter, their eldest son.

Agnes, their daughter.

Iscairn, their younger son.

Iscairn.

My thumb rests beneath the letters. Somewhere, all those years ago, Avis had called that name, and a little boy had turned his head to answer her. All I can hear is my little girl calling for me from another room, certain that I would come. She had been so young when we parted, and I have often wondered how much of me she remembered.

Yet here is my name, given to a son I shall never know.

How dearly I wish I could have heard her say it. Just once, to know the voice of the woman my little Avis became.

The letters blur as tears spill down my cheeks, and Ophelia comes to me, gently cupping my face and wiping them away with her thumbs, though her own eyes are shining.

“I'm sorry I couldn't find more,” she whispers. “I tried to find Piers and Joan as well, but the records are such a bloody mess, and I couldn't⁠—”

“Ophelia, please.” I catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm, keeping it against my cheek as I look at her. “You must not apologise. I have always wondered whether the monks managed to save my little girl, whether she ever recovered enough to return home to her mother. And now I know that she did.” My eyes return to the papers, where Ophelia's familiar hand has written the name of Avis's youngest son. “You have given me an answer I had long since abandoned all hope of finding. I cannot imagine a greater gift.”

She looks at me for a moment, her own eyes still wet with tears, before a small, rather nervous smile returns to her face.

“Well, there's something else I'd like you to see.”

“Something else?”

“Well, yes. I didn't drag you halfway across England just to hand you a bundle of papers, did I? I could've done that at home.”

I fold the papers along their worn creases, secure them with their ribbon and slip the bundle inside my coat before taking Ophelia's hand. She leads me farther into the churchyard, following a narrow path beneath the ancient yews until the Abbey disappears behind the trees and we reach a quieter part of the grounds, where the weathered headstones stand farther apart.

Most of the stones here are dark with moss, their inscriptions worn almost beyond recognition, but beneath one of the larger yews stands a memorial quite unlike the others. Its pale surface has been newly carved, and a little bed of flowers grows in the freshly turned earth at its foot.

She slows beside it, holding my hand as we approach. I cannot imagine why she has brought me to such a recent memorial, particularly after everything she has already shown me, but then my gaze lands on the inscription.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

MARGERY OF ASHCHURCH

PIERS GILLARD

JOAN GILLARD

AVIS OF BREDON

The beloved family of Iscairn Gillard.

My fingertips move slowly across the smooth, cold stone, following the names carved into its surface. Margery. Piers. Joan. Avis. Each one brings a familiar face before my eyes, and when I reach the names of my children, my hand begins to tremble.

Since that day in York three hundred years ago, they were lost to me, and even since I began remembering them, I have had nothing of them to hold or touch. Now here they are, their names preserved together beneath the ancient yews.

My vision blurs as I rest my palm against the lettering, overwhelmed by the tenderness of what Ophelia has done.