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Bartholemew chuckled. “I only have two hands, my friend. I manage the trees that have acquired local esteem, and little more.”

“How does a tree acquire esteem?”

He gestured at the forest. “Most only grow single words. A few manage two or three in a sequence. But the Bishop and the Judge have a firmer mastery of language.”

I peered at the tapestries above, trying to discern the words in the designs, but could not quite read them from the monastery floor.

“Do you weave the Duke?” asked Havelock.

“I do. Or, rather, I did.” Bartholemew sighed. “Is that why you’re here? Are you the investigators from London? The Duchess told me she had sent a letter.”

“We are. I am Havelock Harper, and this is Major Sebastian Wright.”

“Most here seem to believe that you are an expert when it comes to the forest,” I said.

“Yes. That’s why they’ve given me my title. I suppose I am an ambassador of sorts. I try to listen to the trees, though I can’t say if the trees hear me.”

“Can they hear anything?” I asked.

“I don’t believe so.” Bartholemew crossed his hands over his weaving and peered thoughtfully into the forest. “I know they have a kind of seeing, and feeling. Both of those are obvious, by the way they react to the sun and each other. I would even dare to believe that they know we exist and live among them. But I don’t believe that they can hear us.”

“If they know we exist, then are the words for us?” asked Havelock.

“I’m not sure,” said Bartholemew, with a small smile. “I do apologise. I’m sure you were hoping for clear answers. All I have is my observations, and most are still uncertain.”

“Your observations are of great value to us,” said Havelock.

Bartholemew idly picked at the loom beneath his hands. “The Duchess calls Farleigh Forest the Slow Kingdom.”

“‘The Slow Kingdom.’ How delightfully fitting!”

“It’s quite a romantic name. Which is something of a problem, truth be told. Everyone in Farleigh is so caught up in the romance of the phenomenon that I fear we might be failing to truly understand why the trees grow words.” Returning to his loom, Bartholemew began to pull thread through it again. “Still—I’ve been observing them for nearly four decades, and I still have no firm conclusions. They speak, and I listen. That’s the best I have.”

“What do they say?” I asked.

Bartholemew smiled at this. “Why don’t you go and see for yourself? The Bishop grows through the heart of the church. And the Judge at the heart of the village. There are a pair of trees nearby called the Lovers that might be of interest to you, as well.”

“Thank you,” I said. “We shall.”

“Do you still have your tapestries of the Duke?” enquired Havelock.

“The Duke? Yes, of course. A very talkative fellow.” Bartholemew put his weaving aside and led us through an archway, into a cool interior. “Most of the trees only grow one or two words a year—even the most talkative. Theirs is a slow poetry. The Duke was unusual. He had a regal, boisterous tone. It unfurled across his branches.”

We emerged into a large, cool chamber, lit only by the occasional gap in the ancient masonry. It might have once been a place of prayer. I saw, then, the old scars criss-crossing the back of the Ambassador’s neck, highlighted in the gloom.

“Have you served?” I asked.

“I have.” Bartholemew rubbed the back of his neck, and then opened a basket, sifting through the contents. “A long time ago, now. I was in Crimea.”

“The siege of Sevastopol?”

“The very same.”

“Quite the conflict, from what I’m told.”

“It certainly left its mark upon me. Some nights, I still dream of it. The fires. The smoke.” The Ambassador went to a different basket and rifled through it. “Oh.”

“What is it?” asked Havelock.