Alice looks at her boss sideways.
Joan packs up her medicine box. “Have Cook prepare her a curative supper, Alice, and bring it to her later. And you, Edyth, stay behind from the daily office for one more day. Eat here in your cell, and pray. I’ll vouch for your absence. But try to pay attention next time to what brings it on.”
* * *
—
Later, Alice returns with a bowl and bread, and pries my secret out of me.
“You don’t think I’m out of my mind, then?” I ask.
“Give it a few more months here, and then we’ll see if you still want to ask that question,” she teases. “But come on, you really blanked out because you saw some ultramarine?”
“It’s not only that,” I admit. “I don’t just see something, or hear something, or smell something. There’s always color with it, sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. But this is the first time it’s been that intense. There’s something about that blue. It’s…overwhelming.”
“Joan said there was one other person this happened to—you know, trances, things like that.”
I perk up, intrigued. “Here? At the priory? Who?”
“The Anti-Pri.” She giggles. “Oops, I meant the sub-prioress. Agnes de Guile.”
“What did you call her? The Anti-Pri?”
“Never mind, never mind. A little play on words.”
“I like her just fine,” I say.
Alice scoffs. “That’s because she likes you.”
“Seriously, Alice? I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m addled. You’re the one she’s always praising.”
“Oh, no, trust me,” says Alice. “It’s all an act. She picks on you because she knows you’re smarter than you let on. She hates me. There’s a certain type who doesn’t care for questioners.”
“But isn’t that what you’re here for, to ask questions? Alice Palmer, the promising young scholar?”
“As long as my questions don’t apply to the people in charge. Aristotle and Aquinas? Fine. Agnes de Guile? Pfff.”
“Do you really think Agnes…sees things? The same way I do?”
“Well…” Alice ponders. “Didn’t you say the Anti-Pri used to work in the scriptorium?”
“Sure. Muriel showed me a few folios of hers. They’re gorgeous.”
“Now, what would make her leave something she was so good at? Come on, Edyth. Guess. What would happen if people found out that she saw things that weren’t there?”
“But don’t saints see visions?” I suggest. “What about Blessed Francis? He levitated, and Eustace saw a cross in a stag’s antlers, and—”
“Look, Edyth, usually those people die hideous deaths or get run out of town. Not everyone who sees weird things is saint material. Maybe Agnes preferred an easier path. You should think about that.”
“But everyone knows what happened to me now! What do I do?”
“Trust me, the only ones who actually know are me, Joan and Bridgit. But the next time you feel one of these things coming on, take my advice: put down the pestle, fold your hands in your lap and shut your eyes until it passes. Don’t risk it.”
“I hope you’re right. I hope no one else really knows. Swear you won’t tell.”
“I’m not supposed to swear, Edyth. But I promise. And I’m good for my word.”
“Then, Alice,” I say, cautiously changing the subject, “would you be willing to do something else for me?”
“What, get a message to your Mason?” she teases me.
My cheeks flush. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re not a nun, like me. Technically, you don’t have to renounce the world. You’ll have to be creative to keep it hidden, of course, but sure, I’ll be your messenger.”
“Oh, Alice, thank you!” I throw my arms around her. “You really are a true friend.”
“That’s fine,” she says, hugging me back. “But I will be expecting details.”
— 13 —
The white skeletons of trees reach up toward the sun, begging for warmth. A late-spring snow casts a pale shroud over everything, dusty and disintegrating, the wind peeling it away a layer at a time. But plump snowdrops are starting to push up from the frosty ground, and the hellebores’ miraculous blooms hover over mounds of star-shaped leaves.
From the array of baskets on the shed wall, I choose a shallow one and lay down a damp cloth to wrap the stems in, take the shears and go out to collect the early flowers. Past the churchyard and stables, they grow thickest against the priory wall. I miss clipping garden flowers with Mam. I can’t help thinking of how this could all have been so different.
* * *
—
Spring, when cows are in the early grass, is the best time for milk. It’s rich and fat and even a little yellow from the field flowers. There’s nothing slight about the butter it makes, or the thick cream, spread on warm bread.
I had finished the afternoon milking, and by the light of the late-evening candle, I took the cloth from the top of the clay pot and skimmed off the risen cream. Even in the almost-dark, the slow pull of spoon through milk rippled soft hues before me, the strong, round smell of it.
My father appeared, sudden but hushed, in the doorway of the cow barn.
“Come here, Edie,” Da whispered. “Do you want to see something wonderful?”
I covered the milk and cream and followed him into the sheep shed. The last ewe was finally lambing in the dim light. We watched the late lamb tumble out, days after the other sheep had given birth.
“Isn’t it a miracle?” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Think of her, waddling around the field like a ball, just a round ol’ sheep, like, and you can forget there’s a life in there.”
“Like Mam.” I smiled, pressing my cheek to his arm.
“Just like,” Da said, pulling me close.
“Da? Will she be all right?”
“What—the ewe? She’ll be fine.”
“No, I mean Mam. After all the other babies she’s lost—she’s tired and…older. What if something happens?”
Da sighed. The mother sheep licked her baby clean. The little one trembled and fussed.
“Edie, you know I’ve never lied to you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Da. Of course.”
“Then I’m going to tell it to you true. You never knew me mam and da. They died in the famine when I was a boy. But me brothers and sisters and I, we went on. We took what they taught us, and the love they gave us, and it was enough for us to fight with. If anything happens to your mother, she’ll have given you enough. You’ll have what you need.”
“But it’s not about what I need. I couldn’t live without her. She’s the only one who understands—”
“It’s not only the people who are like you who can understand you, Edie.”
“I know, Da, but—”
“People die, Edyth,” he said abruptly. “Parents, and children, and the lonely, the rich, the poor. It’s never fair. It’s never the right time.”
“You’re scaring me.” I clung to him even harder.
“Now, I’m not going to sweeten this for you—your mam’s good at saying those soothing things. But not me. It’s a hard world, this. But one thing I know: you’ll never be alone. Even if you go off and live among strangers in some far place, the right folks will always be there. People who see you for you. Ones who are willing to try. You will have to look for them, and be willing to see them, too.
“And you know, don’t you? People don’t really die. They’re just changed, like seeds break into wheat. All right,” he chuckled, “some change into weeds, too. But you, me girl, you must live so that when it’s your time, your life counts like wheat, not weeds. And I’ll do the same.”
We watched as the lamb stood at last on its wobbling legs and immediately butted against its mo
ther’s belly for milk. Even minutes old, the little one somehow knew what to do.
* * *
—
Sunday night after compline, the moon above is full. Mason meets me, as we’ve arranged, in the shadows behind the chapel, and we sit against the outer wall. The branches wave over us; the clay is cool beneath. We can’t be together long—Alice is ready with a few alibis just in case—but we hold hands, talk in whispers, kiss a lot. There’s no mention of future plans; we simply wait here between layers of life and time.
“Mason.” I make my voice casual and a little teasing, even though the question I’m about to ask is serious.
“Edyth.”
“Why did you come here? Why did you seek me out?”
He grins. “What kind of question is that?”
“Is it because I’m familiar—Edyth from the village? You’re free. You could have your choice. Shouldn’t you be with someone who isn’t bound in a priory…and”—I nervously fiddle with my messy braids—“someone…prettier?”
He reaches for my discarded veil and puts it back over my hair. “Edyth,” he coos, smoothing the linen, “you’re beautiful. You’re…different.”
“You don’t have to remind me. I hate that word, different.”
“Why? Do you want to be like those girls in Hartley Cross, laughing at people behind their backs, never letting anyone else in on the joke?”
I suddenly see Mason with new eyes. “I never would have thought it.”
“What?”
“I always assumed that you were part of that group, like you were sort of…tolerating me.”
He laughs a little too loud.
I nudge him. “Shh! Someone will come!”
“Edyth,” he says more softly, “you and me, we couldn’t be like them if we tried. You’re a wanderer, like me, and you know it. That’s why”—he pauses and takes a breath—“that’s why you should come with me when this is over.”
“When what’s over?”
“When we finish building the chapel.”
All this time, that had never dawned on me. Leaving the priory had never seemed like an option.
“When”—my mouth feels like dust—“when will the chapel be finished?”
“This fall, I reckon. With the lot of us on the crew, it goes fast. The building wasn’t in as bad shape as they let on.”
I hesitate. “That’s soon….I only just started at the scriptorium.” What I don’t want to say is that I can’t imagine leaving there. I love the work, watching stones become pictures.
“Edie, by the time we’d leave, you’d have a fine skill—you could work in any town I do. Scribe work’s always in demand.”
“I have to think about it, Mason. You say I’m a wanderer—I don’t know if that’s true.”
“It’s true enough, isn’t it?” he presses. “A misfit, maybe.”
“Well, I fit there,” I protest. “In the scriptorium.”
Silence hangs in the night air.
“I should get to bed,” I say at last, rising.
“You will think about it, though?” He takes hold of my hand and kisses it. “Coming with me?”
“I will,” I promise. Conflicted as I am, I lean over and kiss his soft lips.
“That’s all I ask,” says Mason. “Good night, Edyth.”
As I gingerly round the corner, I hear the gravel crunch on the other side of the chapel, and I press myself into the side of the building until I see who it is. It’s hard to tell, but as the veiled figure gets closer, I can make out mutterings, as though the person is having a conversation with an invisible partner.
The Dragon Nun. Felisia.
My heart pounds in my throat. Felisia has no discretion whatsoever. If she sees me, my secret is out. But what is she doing out here herself? Everyone’s supposed to be in bed.
Mason comes around the building and passes right by me on his way to the stonemasons’ shed. He almost bumps into Felisia, and she gives a little shriek.
“God be with you, sister. Should you be out like this in the dark?”
“Thank you, sir,” she fumbles. “I came out to…look at the moon….”
“That’s all right,” Mason laughs. “I won’t give you any trouble. Night, then.”
“Good night,” she says, sounding faraway and strange. I hear Mason go into the stonemasons’ shed and shut the creaky wooden door, so I finally emerge from the shadows.
But the Dragon Nun is still standing in the path, looking at the moon, and as I step out, our eyes meet. She stares at me and breaks into a slow grin, then continues on her way to wherever she was going.
— 14 —
Weeks of our Sunday night meetings have passed, and Mason hasn’t pressed me for an answer again. I guess it’s because growing season’s under way, and all hands are required for haying and planting, weeding and watering. Sunup to sundown, there’s no time for leisure or thoughts of a future beyond harvest. Even work at the scriptorium has to slow down—you’ve got to think of winter in summer, summer in winter, if you don’t want to starve.
Out through the rear gate, arm in arm, Alice and I almost skip with gratitude for the freedom. The woods rising at the edge of the open fields tantalize me with their cool darkness, the hot breeze waving the treetops like a thousand beckoning hands.
As frigid as winter was, summer’s already every bit as unrelenting. I get to wear Mam’s weld-green linen dress and a straw hat without a veil, without even the linen coif—and I don’t have to wear hose under my gown. Bare feet, clean sweat—and seeing Mason there across the field makes me feel my body moving inside my clothes. At home, I would work in nothing but my linen tunic, as long as I had an apron over it. But this is as much of a concession to the heat as modesty will allow, so says Agnes de Guile.
Lately the sub-prioress has been stern with me, short-tempered with my mistakes, dropping cutting little remarks about my family, my poverty, the compromsies made to allow me here. I can’t help but wonder about Felisia and that night near Easter. She must have known I was with Mason, but maybe she hasn’t said anything about it. Still, the change in Agnes has me thinking that either it’s about Mason or she’s gotten wind of my trance in the scriptorium.
“She’s not supposed to treat you that way,” Alice says, rebraiding her hair.
“What way?” I shrug and keep on raking. “I’m not a nun. I can’t expect to be treated like one.”
“Why, because you’re poor? The Rule says that you’re not supposed to show favoritism to anyone because of their estate. It’s supposed to be different here.”
“It only says that the abbot or prioress can’t play favorites.”
“Right,” chides Alice, like a teacher. “So I guess if you’re not officially running things, you get a pass? Because she’s not prioress?”
“Yet,” we say together.
“You’d think—we spend all day and night praying, studying the Rule…” I ponder. “And she’s the one teaching everyone. I guess I assumed people got better as they got older.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” says Bridgit, tying a bundle from the hay we’ve just gathered. Her strong forearms protrude from the sleeves of her wheat-colored linen gown. “People simply get more concentrated, like boiling down a sauce.”
Alice and I both laugh.
“You’re lucky, though, being young,” says Bridgit. “If you put the right ingredients in the sauce now, you’ll thicken properly. And the most important ingredient is forgiveness.”
Da’s face flashes in my mind. The glee on his killer’s face. The fight we had right before he died. Henry sending me away.
“Yes,” I say, “but some things can’t be forgiven.”
“They can,” says Bridgit. “They must.”
The three of us fall into an unspoken symbiosis as we bu
ndle and tie the sheaves.
“De Guile,” says Bridgit after a while. “She was a gifted young girl when she came here, like yourselves. Only…” She stops herself.
“Too much salt in the sauce?” I suggest.
“Yes,” says the woman, smirking. “Too much salt in the sauce.”
* * *
—
When you’re starved of sleep from middle-of-the-night prayers, there’s nothing more defeating than losing even a few minutes. Wednesday morning, I wake to the song of robins and the blue wash of dawn at the window. I lie in bed, thinking of Mason, enjoying the warmth of this cocoon, the warmth of my own body under the thinnish covers.
Just then, the bell rings for prime. I slink into the pale green gown, reach over to the bedpost and put on the veil. My hose lie on the floor, and I pull them on and fasten them around my knees. Already I can’t wait to kick them off and head to the fields, but first, the scriptorium calls.
As I’m halfway through reviewing my pigment list, I hear the hammers starting, and I sigh. It’s too distracting.
“I’m going to get a drink of water,” I tell Bridgit, and head downstairs in the direction of the cloister fountain, but I divert my path toward the builders’ shed. Mason brightens when he sees me.
“Sister,” he says with a wink. He hands me a handkerchief and motions to his cheek. I wipe a smear of pigment from my own.
“Hello, stonemason,” I say. “The sun’s warm today. Cool under here, though.” I can’t help but flirt a bit.
“I suppose, unless you’re swinging a hammer,” Mason laughs. Sweat drips out from under his cap. He’s chiseling a rough, dark stone. The man across from him carves a vine into a piece of white limestone.
“I have something for you,” says Mason. He rummages through his satchel and takes out a little house made of polished marble, with tiny arched windows and doors. The sunlight catches it and makes it glow as he places it in my hand.
“This is for you,” he says.
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