Black as Night: A Fairy Tale Retold (The Fairy Tale Novels)

by Regina Doman

  “How did you get in?” Father Francis asked her.

  She gazed at him and swallowed. “I got lost last night. I was on the subway, and I—I got mugged.” Her voice caught at the memory, but she went on relentlessly, steadying her voice. “They took my purse, and I ran. They chased me, and I came here. I knew this place, before, when it was empty. I had a key—”

  “A key?” several voices asked at once. She put a hand to her neck and held the brass key on a gold chain, the one asset she had left.

  “Yes—I happened to have the key—I’m sorry, it’s a long story—” she said faintly. “I didn’t know anyone would be here or I wouldn’t have bothered you—”

  Thoughts were whirling in her brain. I’m in deep, deep trouble, and I don’t want to get anyone else in trouble with me. Not my family. Not these monks who are being so kind…

  II

  “You’ve had a very rough night, I can see,” Father Francis’s voice had lost its edge completely. “I’m sorry, but I’m glad you found your way here.”

  Brother Herman leaned down and gently touched her black head, his face all sorrow. “What’s your name?”

  She looked at his sympathetic face, and something flickered across her pale one—a spasm of shame or pain. Then she paused, and the edge of a smile touched her lips. “You can call me Nora.”

  “How about some breakfast, Nora?”

  “Yes—thank you.” Her voice recovered its stability and held onto it at last.

  The brothers helped her up out of the coats, pushing back some of the piles. Brother Leon saw now that she was dressed nicely—or had been. Her dress was a thin yellow print of a good material. Her hair was cut short in a jagged way he supposed New Yorkers considered fashionable. There were faint traces of makeup on her face—not a lot, just the tasteful amount that girls who knew how to wear makeup put on. Everything about her—her poise, her watch, her small pearl drop earrings, her voice—said that this was a girl from the nicer side of town. Completely out of her element here.

  “I’m sorry,” she said apologetically. “But could you tell me your names?”

  She was not so distraught that she couldn’t be polite, Brother Leon thought. “I’m Brother Leon,” he offered her his hand. She took it firmly, and smiled at him, a bit hesitantly. He returned it, liking her.

  “I’m Brother Herman. Father Francis is the head of our little community,” Brother Herman directed her gaze to the crusty old man. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite.”

  “Not visitors, at any rate,” Father Francis shook her hand with a wry smile through his bushy white beard. “Novices, on the other hand, aren’t as lucky.” He shot a glance at Leon, who immediately tried to look pious and innocent. “Watch out for that one,” Father Francis said, referring to Leon. “He forgets to make coffee.” Nodding to her curtly, he made his way out of the room.

  “This is Father Bernard,” Brother Herman went on as the slim dark monk with an aristocratic black beard took her hand and shook it solemnly. His face was gaunt and dark-eyed, but his soft voice had a Long Island twang. “Very good to meet you, Nora. Let us know if there’s any way we can help you.”

  “Thank you very much,” she said, subdued by his deep, icon-like eyes.

  “And that’s Brother George,” Brother Herman directed Nora to the scowling older man with bushy red hair who lifted a hand and vanished down the hallway, back to his dishes. “He’s—a bit shy.”

  “Hi, I’m Brother Matt,” the blond novice came over and shook her hand. “Hope you’ve recovered okay.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Where are you from?”

  “Indiana,” he said, and laughed. His voice definitely had a drawl when contrasted to the sharp New York accents of the other friars. “I’m the first imported novice. All the other guys in the order are from the New York area. Father Francis gave a talk at my college and I came out to join.” He grinned. “I made the coffee this morning, so don’t worry, you won’t be poisoned or anything.”

  She laughed a little, and found her hand enveloped in the clamp of two large hands. “Hi,” a deep voice said above her. “I’m Charley.”

  She looked up at the brown-bearded face and green eyes. The accent was Brooklyn.

  “Believe it or not, Brother Charley’s in the seminary. Can you picture him a priest?” Matt said. “He used to be a Hell’s Angel.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, almost.” Brother Charley flushed a little, and began to talk rapidly. “I sure spent a lot of my life trying to be one, but I never quite made it in. And then God caught up with me, and the rest is history, as they say.”

  “Was God driving a hot rod?” Brother Leon elbowed him. “Yeah, we’re a new order, so we let in the riffraff.”

  The ex-biker said nothing, but smoothly put the smaller friar into a headlock and gave him a Dutch rub. Leon made choking noises and Charley released him with a smile.

  “Come, sister, if we keep standing here, these fellows will keep talking until lunch time. I believe there’s still some breakfast in the kitchen.” Brother Herman steered her away from the three boisterous novices.

  “I’ll make more if there’s not enough,” Leon came up behind them as they walked down the friary corridor. “I haven’t had my breakfast yet, either, Nora.”

  In a few minutes, he had set a plate of eggs—his portion—and toast before her at the refectory table. She started in hungrily. In the hallway, he could hear Matt and Charley joking with each other as they went upstairs to the bedrooms. Father Bernard passed by the dining room door, smiled kindly at the girl, and then vanished into the chapel.

  Brother Herman settled his round Friar-Tuck bulk into a chair opposite the girl and chatted comfortably while she ate. When Leon came in with a plate of toast and a day-old bagel, he was telling her about their new foundation, their current ministry, and their plans for the buildings the archdiocese had just given them: the old church of St. Lawrence, the rectory, and an adjoining high school, St. Catherine’s, which had been closed down by the diocese last year because of school consolidation.

  “We’re hoping to clean up the school, repaint it, and furnish it as apartments for the homeless, so that up to thirty homeless men can live there at one time.” He looked wistful. “There’s so much we could do—there’s such a great need here in the South Bronx, you know. It will take a lot of work to clean the buildings before we can begin, but most of our time right now is taken up with distributing the food and clothing we get from the parish ministries around here. From time to time we get some laypeople to help us with the big cleaning work. All we’ve done so far is clear out some of the offices in the basement of the high school for our volunteers to use for bedrooms whenever they come down.”

  She nodded, eating. Brother Leon sat down beside her.

  “So, Nora, where are you from?” Brother Leon helped himself to some toast.

  She evaded his eyes. “Around here,” she said quietly.

  Brother Leon caught a slight warning in Brother Herman’s eyes and reined in his curiosity. Apparently Brother Herman didn’t think this was a good time for personal questions.

  “I’m from the City myself. I’m sorry you had such a bad experience last night,” he changed his tack.

  “It was stupid of me,” she murmured. “I got on the wrong train going towards Gun Hill Road, and I was trying to go back to Grand Central. I never should have been in this area so late at night. I really do know better than that.”

  Brother Herman nodded sympathetically. “Those things happen,” he said, pausing a moment. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

  “No, just a little bruised. It happened so quickly—all they did was snatch my purse, really.” She looked at her eggs, her cheeks turning red suddenly.

  “Thank God that’s all,” Brother Herman said heartily. “It must have been a terrible experience for you.”

  “It was,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “You’ve been very kind. And this food i
s very good.” She looked at Brother Leon with a small smile.

  “Thanks. Hey, do you want us to take you to the police station?” Brother Leon asked. “You could give a description of the guys—maybe they’ll be able to find them. You never know.”

  She hesitated. “No, thank you,” she said at last. “There wasn’t anything really important in the purse. Just cash. And that will be gone forever.”

  Brother Leon dropped his eyes. She didn’t want to go to the police. Another strange thing.

  “Can we help you get back home?” Brother Herman asked.

  “No, thank you,” she said, and began blinking again. “I can’t go home just now, and I don’t know what to do next—”

  Brother Herman offered, “If you need a place to stay, we do have those bedrooms in the basement of the high school that we mentioned,” he said. “One of our ministries is offering lay people a place to stay and do service for the poor, as we do. Could you use something like that? Of course, I’ll need to check with our superior, but I’d be happy to.”

  She raised her head, bewildered. “You would let me stay? Even though—I mean, do you let women work here?”

  “Oh, yes. The bedrooms are in the building next door to us—it’s completely separated. And no one’s using them this week.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” she said with an effort. “But, I’m not sure you should. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “What, are you a leper?” Brother Leon asked.

  She looked at him, tears in her eyes, and was forced to smile at his expression. “Not yet,” she said.

  “Then at least wait and find out if it’s okay.” Brother Leon said casually. “It might be a temporary answer for you anyway.”

  “Well—I’d be glad to help clean up around here,” she said, pushing back her hair. “But I’d like to get to Sunday Mass. Would you be having—?”

  Brother Herman shook his head. “We already had our Sunday Mass at seven, but I’ll check with the Fathers—that’s Father Francis and Father Bernard—and see what they suggest. There might be a Mass nearby you could go to, but if not, I’m sure one of them would be glad to say Mass for you.”

  “That would be too much trouble,” the girl objected.

  “No, they consider it part of their duty. That’s why they’re priests.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  At least, she was Catholic and observant enough to want to keep her Sunday Mass obligation. Brother Leon got to his feet and said, “Hey, if you’re done, give me your dishes, and I’ll wash them for you.” He had to finish cleanup. “Keep your coffee mug until you’re finished with it. There’s more in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” she said, cupping her hands around it and looking past him out the refectory window. The sunlight made her eyes pale blue in her white face. Her thin, small eyebrows and thick lashes were black, but her eyes were still red from her tears.

  He admitted to himself that she was quite beautiful, in a fragile, luminous way. But beneath that lovely surface he suspected lay some deep problems. Troubled, he scooped up the plates and went back to the kitchen.

  III

  …White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,

  With a voice like any mermaiden—

  Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,

  Where she has gone, nor yet this year,

  Except with this for an overword—

  But where are the snows of yester-year?

  Where was Blanche?

  Bear sat by the window in his hotel room and stared out unseeing at the dark, empty cobblestone streets of the Piazza Navona, pocked with pools of streetlight. The book of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s poetry he had been reading to distract himself had fallen to the floor, its lyrics having turned traitor on him. Once again he picked up the phone and dialed.

  It was past midnight in Rome, but still daylight in New York City. Maybe Blanche was away for the weekend. Maybe the New York phone service was down. Maybe she was just at her summer job. But the feeling that something was wrong persisted.

  He paused, and dialed her home phone again slowly, letting it ring on till the answering machine picked up the call. She still wasn’t there.

  Now he leaned back heavily in the upholstered chair, his six-foot broad-shouldered frame creaking the hotel furniture. He ran his large hands in his longish, and now thoroughly rumpled, black hair, and stared at the floor, unseeing.

  He must have drifted off to sleep, because he was startled awake some hours later by his brother shaking him.

  “I know—I need to go to bed,” Bear murmured, half-asleep.

  “Go to bed if you want,” Fish said. “But it’s morning now.”

  Startled, Bear looked around the hotel room, blinking at the morning sun coming through the windows. Rubbing his sore neck, he looked around the sitting area of their hotel suite.

  “Rough night?” Fish said, half-smiling. He was dressed in a paisley lounging robe that, for some reason or other, always made Bear think that his brother was dressed up as Sherlock Holmes. Fish, as his brother was nicknamed (his real name was Benedict), certainly had that air of intellectual detachment, and like a fish, he was swift and hard to pin down. Younger by a year, he was in many ways a shorter, thinner, lighter-haired shadow of Bear, despite his sharper, more uneven features.

  “Did anyone call?” Bear asked, trying to stretch the criks out of his spine.

  “You were the one guarding the phone,” his brother remarked, “But no. I take it you haven’t gotten a hold of Blanche.”

  Bear shook his head, and Fish sank into the chair opposite thoughtfully. “Very strange,” he said. “Not at all like her. Is there any chance she wouldn’t be returning your calls for some reason?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “I thought you said you two had a ‘sort-of fight’ last time you talked.”

  “It wasn’t really a fight,” Bear responded, defensive.

  “I was quoting your exact words,” Fish said blandly.

  “It was really more of an intense conversation,” Bear explained, toying with Blanche’s card, which he had been using as a bookmark in his poetry book.

  “Your story is changing,” Fish remarked, picking up the book from the floor and turning the pages. “Who is this? Oh, Rossetti. Pre-Raphaelite poets again. You must be depressed. I’m sticking with your first explanation.”

  “I just don’t know what to do,” Bear said. “In a more specific sense than usual. Is this an emergency situation or not?”

  “Why not call Mrs. Brier and check with her?”

  “I already thought of that, but I have no idea where she and Rose are on vacation. I know they’re in California, but I don’t know what city. Now that I think of it, Blanche said they were going to be traveling around to different parts of the state, visiting different relatives.”

  “Call information and look for any Briers in California,” Fish suggested.

  Bear shook his head. “They’re her mom’s relatives,” he said. “And I have no idea what Jean Brier’s maiden name was.”

  “Well, that’s bad luck,” Fish remarked. “But I suppose if she’s really missing, the Briers will probably notice it before you do and call you first.”

  “I don’t want to risk that.” Bear bit the edge of the card in his hand. “Fish, if I can’t get a hold of her by morning—I think I should go back.”

  “Look, if you’re that worried, call the police and see if they can check the house.”

  “Suppose they don’t find anything there?”

  “Then, obviously, we can all start worrying,” Fish said calmly, ringing the bell for breakfast.

  Groaning, Bear got up and went to his room to dress.

  Reflections Banquet Hall, he thought as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He had taken her there once for dinner, and she had ended up getting a summer job as a receptionist in the large restaurant/banquet hall on Long Island. Maybe they would have someone ther
e who would answer the phone even at two in the morning. New York parties could run late. I’ll call and find out if she had been at work this weekend, and if she’s scheduled to work on Monday morning, he thought. Maybe she’s even at work right now, still cleaning up after some party.

  Hurriedly he called information in the States, got the number for Reflections Restaurant and Banquet Hall, and was connected.

  “Reflections.” A deep woman’s voice answered, sounding a tinge irate.

  “Hi. I’m trying to get in touch with Blanche Brier, who works there, and I was wondering if you could tell me...”

  The woman’s voice came back after the transatlantic pause. “I’m sorry, but she doesn’t work here any more.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Pause. “She doesn’t work here.”

  He fumbled for words. “She told me she was the receptionist there...”

  “Yes, she was. But she doesn’t work here any more.”

  “When did that happen? I mean, when did she stop working there?” his own voice had a slightly ghostly echo.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Could you check the schedule for me?” he asked, tinged with impatience.

  “She’s not on the schedule.”

  His words overlapped with hers. “When was the last time she worked?”

  Pause. “I can ask someone.”

  “Yes, that would be great.”

  The phone was set down and the fuzz of static buzzed and rumbled in Bear’s ear, like the sound of some electronic ocean.

  A more cheerful voice came on the line. “You’re looking for Blanche?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on and let me see when she’s working next,” the voice said. There was a pause, and the voice returned. “Funny, I don’t see her on the schedule at all for this week. Sorry.”

  “Listen,” Bear said. “I know that. They said she doesn’t work there any more.”

  “She doesn’t? Oh, that’s real strange.”

  “Could you tell me when the last time she worked was?”

  “Sure thing. Lemme check.”

  Another thump and more static. Then the voice swam back towards him. “I saw her on Friday when I came on to my shift, but she might have done some weekend hours...” another pause. “Yeah, she got off work Saturday at midnight.”