Peter’s face reddened. He released the door. She was referring to the vow taking, not that she was no longer within. He breathed a grateful sigh.
“I wish to speak to her, whatever you may choose to call her—now.”
Someone spoke behind the woman and she glanced back.
“No. Please, Sister Martha.” It was Ruth speaking.
“You can’t let them inside.” Martha’s words carried over her shoulder.
As they bickered back and forth, Peter fought to remain composed. He would not be leaving without seeingBrighitregardless of who won the argument.
Ruth elbowed her way past the older woman. With a huff, Martha opened the door wider, allowing the pregnant woman to step through and for Peter to see down the hall straight ahead and a door to the right just inside.
Ruth smiled. She carried a tray of hard bread and cheese, a pitcher, and mugs to the table. “I have brought you what you requested. Come. Please.”
He glanced at Ruth, then at Martha who glowered at him.
Mort remained where he was. Peter acquiesced and walked to the table, accepting the cup offered him.
“Forgive, Sister Martha, we do not have many visitors here,” Ruth said. Her tone dropped when she added, “and she trusts no one.”
Peter couldn’t care less what Martha thought. He was going to see Brighit. Out here or in there but he would be taking his leave only after she presented her reassurances.
“She will be here anon,” she said as if reading his mind, then poured a cup for Mort.
“Thank you, Sister Ruth,” Mort said as he took the cup.
“How long will we have to wait for Brighit?” Peter regretted demonstrating his extreme impatience with the situation but refused to back down.
“I believe they are just showing her where she will sleep.”
He reached to the sack that hung from his belt, assuring him that the flute he bought her was still inside. Perhaps she’d be allowed to play quietly here.
“Is it her own area?” Mort said, always so adept at idle chatter.
Ruth took a sip of her drink, her hand resting on the bulge where her child lay, and smiled. “It is very small, but yes, it is her own.”
Peter ground his teeth. How long would they keep Brighit?
“How long have you been here?” Mort appeared to be trying to ease the tension. Peter was fine with the amount of tension.
“About a year.”
Peter stilled.
Mort nodded and sipped his drink then glanced around. “It is lovely here. Do you tend all these gardens?”
Peter wanted to pulverize the man for interrupting. A year? She’s been here a year and she’s pregnant? He began to count to ten but stopped at three.
“Were you not with child when you arrived?”
Ruth lips parted slighted but then she smiled, her nose wrinkling with the gesture. “Of course. I am past my time to give birth.”
The chords in Peter’s neck tightened. She would have a child here? The macabre sense that they would not survive wormed into his gut. He put down his cup and returned to pacing.
Mort demonstrated a spark of wisdom by deciding to cease the idle conversation.
“Let me see what is keeping Sister Mary.”
