The Open Channel

by Jill Morrow

  Kat and Stephen stared at each other. Then, as one, they approached the kitchen table, seating themselves on either side of their younger daughter.

  “Claire.” Kat placed a tentative hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “What were you talking about a moment ago?”

  Claire stared at her with round green eyes. Her curls, never neat at best, looked as though she’d spent the day in a wind tunnel. “You mean about where Julie goes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Claire bounced the eraser end of her pencil on the table. “I don’t know where it is, exactly. I was hoping Julie would tell us so that I could find out.”

  Stephen reached out a hand and stilled the tapping pencil. “I’m not sure Julia knows,” he said.

  “Oh, she has to,” Claire said. “I mean, she’s there a lot. You’d think she’d know where she was.”

  “How about you tell us what you know.” Kat pulled her chair closer to her daughter.

  “Well…” Claire stared at the ceiling. “I can’t tell you very much. Wherever it is, there are a lot of ladies in long dresses. There’s one in charge, too, a very beautiful lady with red hair. At least, I think it’s red. I only see the parts that poke out from under her veil. Anyway, she’s friends with this man who has a lot of dark, curly hair—except on the top of his head. He has a little bald spot there.”

  “I see.” Kat took Claire’s hand, examining each little finger in turn. “How do you know this, sweetie?”

  Claire shrugged. “I just do.”

  “Do you dream about it at night?”

  “No.”

  “Daydream it?”

  “No. Is dinner almost ready? I’m hungry.”

  Stephen instinctively glanced at the pot on the stove. Steam poured from the top. “Soon, Claire. You said Aunt Frannie was in this place.”

  “Well, yeah. She is.” She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, hardly noticing how pale the information made her mother and how strained it made her father.

  “What is she doing there?” Stephen pressed.

  “I don’t know. I don’t see her. I just know she’s there.”

  “How do you know?”

  Claire looked exasperated now, as if she’d drawn the short straw and landed a set of dunces for parents. “I just know,” she said.

  Kat could not repress her frustration. “Claire, baby, what else do you ’just know’?”

  Her daughter cocked her head, as if listening. “Nothing, really. Except that I think Julie’s getting ready to go back to that place again.”

  “How do you—” Stephen started, but Kat was already out of the kitchen and halfway to the stairs.

  16

  THE CHAPEL DOOR BANGED AGAINST THE WALL. H EART POUND -ing, Francesca quickly ducked behind a pew. An embarrassed flush swept from her neck to her hairline. She’d stayed in this chapel for hours after leaving Asteroth, long enough to marvel that the nuns of the priory could glance right through her with total disregard. She’d knelt beside them in prayer, despite the fact that all the prayer in the world seemed unable to obliterate the nauseating memory of Asteroth, not quite human, not quite spirit, crumpled in the dirt at her feet.

  Still, even that grainy horror could not change the fact that she remained invisible. There was no reason to crouch in hiding like a criminal.

  Cautiously, she allowed herself to peer over the top of the pew. A loud gasp pierced the stillness; she recognized it as her own. For there, just over the threshold, stood the one person at Saint Etheldreda’s who seemed able to see her.

  The prioress raised her chin and stepped into the room. Wild russet curls tumbled past her shoulders, framing her pale face in a burst of riotous color. Delicate lilac shadows underlined the icy gray of her eyes. A splash of tiny freckles emphasized her ivory skin.

  “Are you here, then?” Her husky voice ricocheted off the stone walls. Francesca drew in a deep, quiet breath.

  “I know you are.” Alys slammed the chapel door. A burst of air swirled beneath her white linen shift, lifting it to reveal a pair of slender, bare feet. Though the shift was sleeveless, the prioress did not seem chilled. She raised her arms in a gesture of supplication. Her skin glowed like mother-of-pearl in the waning moonlight.

  “Show yourself,” she whispered. Her arms dropped to her sides as she advanced to the first row of pews. “If you have any mercy within you, spirit, you will show yourself. Whatever can you want of me?” She paused for a moment, considering. “Or perhaps it is not me you want at all.”

  The creak of door hinges tore Francesca’s stare from the prioress’s eerie beauty. A hooded figure slipped into the room, closing the door with a click.

  Alys turned. Gregory slid the hood from his head. Deep lines etched his forehead and mouth where none had existed before. He reached toward Alys but did not touch her. Francesca could hardly blame him. In the odd half-light of the approaching dawn, Alys seemed made of the most fragile porcelain, ready to break at a moment’s notice.

  “Sweet Alys.” The priest’s voice cracked. “You must return to bed.”

  The prioress studied him. “Do you think me mad?” she asked.

  He turned a shade paler but did not avert his gaze.

  She grasped his hand. With force that banished any thought of fragility, she raised their entwined fingers to his lips. “Feel my touch, Gregory. Look into my eyes. You know my heart. Perhaps you even know my soul. Look closely and tell me if you think me mad.”

  Gregory’s troubled gaze rested on their clasped hands. His dark eyes met hers. She held the gaze.

  The priest raised his free hand and gently traced the curve of the prioress’s cheek. His fingers trailed through her tousled hair and down the soft skin of her inner arm. He cradled her hand in his own, then drew her into his arms.

  “You are not mad,” he whispered across the top of her head. “I should know if you were. Lord help us, Alys, you are not mad. But what, then, has come upon us?”

  “I don’t know.” The brittle edge left Alys’s voice. It was as though she’d found a well of strength in her lover’s confirmation of her sanity. “I know only this, Gregory: I have not been God’s holiest child, but I have believed and I have trusted. Whatever happens here is in God’s hands.”

  Gregory hesitated. “You do not think this is retribution for our sins?”

  Her icy eyes switched instantly to fire. “Sins?”

  “Alys, you cannot deny that we have vowed lives of chastity, yet….”

  “I think I hear the bishop’s voice, although it is his envoy I look upon. No, Gregory. My love for you is the truest part of my life. Would God grant me such a gift and then punish me because I rejoice in it?”

  A small smile crossed his face, but Alys did not see it. She had turned back to face the empty chapel.

  “Spirit!” she called in ringing tones. “I am neither bad enough nor good enough to merit your attention, so you must simply tell me what you want. Show yourself!”

  Francesca stared at the tableau before her. She did not know the prioress, yet she recognized the determined set of her mouth. Gregory, too, had squared his shoulders in anticipation of a revelation he might never see.

  She could not frighten these people any more than she already had. Besides, there could be great benefits to making herself known. Asteroth had wedged himself into this era, his spiritual nature undetected in human form. She could not begin to fathom his plan without additional clues. Perhaps Alys, so foreign yet so familiar at the same time, could supply the information so desperately needed.

  Slowly, Francesca rose from behind the pew.

  Alys’s eyes followed her. The prioress stood firm this time, not even shrinking back against the man beside her.

  “So,” she said quietly. “You are not a creation of my fevered mind.”

  “No.” Francesca dared not move.

  “Do you see her, Gregory?”

  Gregory squinted as he studied the empty air. “No.”
>
  “Then let me tell you what I see.” Alys stepped forward. Francesca required every ounce of strength to keep from recoiling. “I do not see this figure clearly, you must understand. She is but an outline, and I can see through her to the wall beyond. But I see a woman of some years, with white hair and foreign clothing.”

  Francesca stole a glance at her down vest, sweater, and jeans. She had quite forgotten that she wore clothes of the twenty-first century.

  But the prioress moved even closer, the reluctant priest in tow. Now they stood only a few feet away, close enough that Francesca could once again detect the slight scent of lavender that seemed to follow Alys wherever she went.

  “The curious part, Gregory, is that she seems quite filled with light.” The prioress folded her arms across her chest. “Are you of God, then, spirit?”

  Francesca began nodding before the words could even leave her lips. “I am,” she said.

  “She is.” Alys translated for Gregory.

  Unsettling as her presence must seem to the prioress, Francesca could only imagine how awful it was for the priest. He was expected to believe in the existence of a woman he could neither see nor touch. Strangely, he remained unfaded. The lines of his forehead had softened. One eyebrow raised, the facial equivalent of a question mark. Apparently, belief in the unseen did not bother him nearly as much as the fear that his beloved’s mind had wandered away.

  “Her voice is quite clear,” Alys said. “I am surprised you can’t hear it. Spirit, say more.”

  “I am not a spirit,” Francesca said. “At least, I don’t think I am.”

  Gregory started. “I heard the faintest of chimes. Did she speak?”

  Alys nodded and plowed forward. “What are you, then?”

  For one of the few times in her life, Francesca felt at a loss for words. “I don’t know, exactly. But, please, I think I am here to help, somehow. Evil is here.”

  “Yes,” Alys said. “This I know. Does the evil rest upon Isobel?”

  “The young girl? The one who wanders your grounds at night?”

  Alys’s eyes widened, but she did not lose her composure. “Yes,” she said.

  Francesca thought for a moment. Something about Isobel certainly held Asteroth fast, like a magnet. “I think it does involve her, although I had not considered that fully. I speak of the one you call Hugh.”

  Alys blanched. Her hand fluttered to her stomach.

  The chapel bells began to toll their deep call to Divine Office. Gregory shook his head as if roused from a dream.

  “Lauds, Alys. The nuns will arrive in a matter of minutes.”

  Her hand gripped his sleeve. “She has news of Hugh, and perhaps of Isobel. I cannot leave now, Gregory.”

  “You must.” He rested an insistent hand on the small of her back. “You are sane, Alys. I have no good reason to believe this, but my faith in God and in you will suffice for now. Still, you cannot be found here dressed as you are, rambling about a being that you alone can see.”

  Neither woman could refute his logic.

  “Go,” Francesca urged. “We can’t help each other if you are locked away as a madwoman.”

  Alys allowed Gregory to guide her toward the sacristy door, away from the path the nuns would walk. “Come with me,” she called to Francesca.

  Francesca’s head whirled. Her feet felt leaden. A slight metallic taste filled her mouth at the thought of leaving this haven. “I can’t,” she said. “I must stay here until I regain enough strength to face…what I must.”

  “We will come to you,” Gregory said over his shoulder as he swept Alys from view.

  Francesca realized that his faith was perhaps the strongest of the three of them: he saw nothing, yet was willing to believe.

  17

  FROM THE DEPTHS OF HER PRIORY BED, I SOBEL HEARD SAINT Etheldreda’s bells summon her to Lauds. Hours before, she’d actually arrived in the chapel early for Matins, still cold and shaking from her encounter with Hugh. She’d clutched her cloak tightly about her body throughout the psalms and canticles, hoping that nobody would notice she wore only a thin night shift beneath it. She needn’t have worried. Most of the nuns disliked her, but they were too drugged with sleep to pay her much mind at that early hour. How fortunate. It would have required far less than Dame Margaret’s gimlet stare to see that her shivering was born of more than the chill of the night air.

  She did not begin to feel safe again until after tumbling, exhausted, into her narrow bed. There, amid the snores and deep, regular breathing of the nuns, fear had ebbed away, and Isobel could allow herself to review what had happened near the priory gate such a short time ago.

  Hugh. Her face flamed scarlet. She could almost feel his rough hand on her breasts, the hard press of his lips against hers. She’d burrowed beneath her coverlet in the hope that curling out of sight might vanquish the memory. Dear Lord, however had he dared? How could he treat her as he might a scullery maid or serving wench? She was not royalty, but she was highborn. Such liberties should bring stripes from her father’s whip upon his back.

  Shame flooded her, although several seconds passed before she recognized it as such. She did not shame easily, but it seemed suddenly as if all the world were privy to her earlier nakedness and to the sin of her own desire. Hugh had not hunted her. She’d been the one to slip away to his side. She’d enticed him, offered herself up like a succulent strawberry ripe for the picking. Whatever had she expected?

  She tore the coverlet from her eyes. This was no fault of hers. She could never have known that Hugh would claw at her like a wild beast!

  She couldn’t go back to him. She wouldn’t go back to him. She would ignore his entreaties and snub the gifts he’d surely bring to entice her back to those little lessons that so obsessed him. Oh, he’d be back. But this time, she’d resist.

  Resist. Once more, persistent shame intruded. Merciful Mother Mary help her, his touch inflamed her at the same time it repelled her. How was she to quell the blaze without him?

  Oh, but how could he treat her thus, as if she had no heart, no soul? Had no one counseled him in matters of love? Had his past ladies not taught him that passion need be tempered by pretty words and trinkets?

  Isobel’s brow furrowed. Surely he did not whisper sweet words of love into another’s small, willing ear. She could not abide the thought that his lips might kiss anyone’s other than her own.

  Her stomach tumbled.

  But, of course! There had been no other ladies!

  The hope brightened like a candle in the darkness.

  Perhaps Hugh had awaited his twin soul, the one woman in eternity who could complete his heart and take her place as his true consort. Now, having found her, he’d grown so full of longing and passion that he could hardly be expected to take time for niceties.

  She could advise him—if she consented to ever see him again.

  Gradually, Isobel’s ragged breathing had subsided into sleep. Behind her closed eyelids, sharp images of deep chasms and unforgiving fires melted into landscapes of green and yellow meadows and wave upon wave of soothing azure sea. She sighed as golden sun caressed her body.

  The bells tolled for Lauds. All about her, the nuns tossed in their beds, grasping for the last threads of sleep before rising. But Isobel’s eyes remained closed as she observed the meadow spread before her. The beauty of the scene paled beside the beauty of Hugh, who stood facing her.

  “Isobel.” His hair glowed nearly white in the sun. His eyes were the deep lapis lazuli she remembered from long-ago dreams. He stood only yards away. She longed to run to him, to fling herself into his embrace. His arms had not opened to receive her, however, and she found herself unable to move.

  “You must forgive me,” Hugh said, and she wondered if it was not blasphemous for a god to beg forgiveness from his acolyte. “I frightened you tonight. It should not be that way.”

  Isobel’s eyes widened. He had more than frightened her. He had dishonored her, treated her with the high
est disdain. She raised her foot, ready to slam it to the ground to show her displeasure. Then she caught his eyes, that beautiful blue so rarely seen these days. Heaven help her, she could happily lose herself in such eyes, melting against his body with a willingness that would allow him any liberty he chose.

  She gently returned her foot to earth.

  “It cannot be thus.” Hugh’s voice stroked her. “We have come too far, Isobel. To abandon our mission now would be purest folly. We must return to our lessons.”

  Once again, raw displeasure flooded her. This was hardly a question of missions and lessons. This was about the love that bonded them together throughout all ages. He should speak about the relentless longing for her that gnawed away at his heart. He should reveal bold plans to abduct her, to carry her away from this horrible place. She dreamed of them sharing their years in a small cottage by a distant sea, but Hugh apparently did not share her vision.

  “Look at me, Isobel,” he said. She jumped. She had not realized that she’d allowed her gaze to wander. “Understand me well. We cannot touch each other again. Ever.”

  Her mouth formed an O of surprise. Had he lost his wits?

  His fists were clenched. A vein in his neck throbbed as he swallowed hard, then gritted his teeth. Isobel’s indignation faded as truth dawned.

  How stupid he was. Perhaps he was wise in the ways of his silly lessons. Mayhap those lessons even meant something to his sense of reason. But here, gazing upon him, she saw that this man she so desired possessed very little knowledge of his own nature. His passion for her ran through his very core. He could loudly proclaim his intent, but he could never deny her.

  “Is this clear, Isobel?” he asked, and she caught the strain in his voice.

  A slow smile spilled from her lips. Behold the mighty teacher. Let him believe himself master of the world, a powerful creator in command of all around him. She knew better. He was a man like any other, a slave to his own lust. She would have him as she pleased or become his downfall.

  “You!” Hugh’s shocked voice interrupted her victory.