“You have experienced a traumatic event. You are likely trying to reframe the attack through a familiar lens. Bladesmithing is what you know best. Of course you would make that connection.”
Is it true? Has my own mind manipulated my perception of the experience in order to cope with the trauma of an attack I can’t even remember? If it truly is the harvest season, then the tithe has already come and gone. Twice I have missed the opportunity to participate. I’m reminded of Harper’s cincture, the three knots proudly displayed at her waist.
“Can I ask, Mother Mabel, when Harper became an acolyte?” It stings. I’d never considered the possibility she would ascend to that station before me. She must have taken her final vows during the summer, her appointment shrouded in the vague pool containing my lost memories.
“It was recent, only within the last few months.” She frowns, suddenly concerned. “Are you upset? I know you’ve had your heart set on it, but be patient. Your time will come.”
The possibility sparks no joy inside me, which only deepens my confoundment. It’s what I’ve worked toward for the last ten years.
Mother Mabel sighs, then stands. “Do not strain yourself. Rest for a few more days. Returning to your routine will help center you, I’m sure.” On her way out the door, she asks, “Would you like me to bring your Text for the nightly readings?”
Only now do I realize how tightly my hands clamp the blanket. With some effort, I pry my fingers loose, let them relax in my lap. Candlelight wanes, eating down the wick until the flame succumbs to the pool of melted wax. The thought of praying feels strange, but I nod anyway. “Thank you.”
She returns with the leatherbound manuscript, placing it on my bedside table. After a brief farewell, I am again alone, awash in dying light. Though the gleam of the oiled leather draws my attention, I do not speak my prayers aloud. Nor do I pray the next day. Nor the next.
41
FOUR WEEKS FOLLOWING MY ATTACK, I return to my daily routine. Mornings bring prayer, breakfast, crisp dew on blades of grass. Then chores: weeding the gardens, scrubbing pots, fixing the carts, chopping vegetables for the midday meal. When the tenebrous air cools with approaching dusk, I retreat to the forge for a moment of stolen peace among the clutter of tools and half-baked metal. Another fortnight, and I can return to smithing. Physician’s orders.
Late evenings bring fractured sleep in my thin, narrow cot. I dream of an emerald gown, a set of hands bracing my waist. Sometimes, I light a lamp and hang it in my window, though I do not know why.
Waking or dreaming, I feel neither peace nor clarity. Thornbrook has dulled, and steeps in a perpetual, lackluster gloom. My memories have not returned. When I address Mother Mabel about my concerns, she merely says, “Give it time, Brielle. You’re still recovering.”
One morning, when the bell tolls for breakfast, I trail my peers in their rush through the corridors, eager as puppies at play. As I turn into the cloister, the hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and against my better judgment, I slow. It is not the first time I have sensed another’s presence beyond my line of sight.
No, the first instance occurred two days following my release from the infirmary. On my walk to the forge, something shifted in the corner of my eye. I turned, and watched a figure leap over the stone wall. Later that evening, I wondered if I had imagined it.
Three days passed before I again spotted movement: long, streamlined legs and threads of curling brown hair. No one seems to have noticed anything unusual, so I’ve told not a soul of my suspicion. I fear the madness will deepen.
I’m the last to arrive at breakfast. Harper sits separately from Isobel, I notice. This is the third week she has eaten alone. Without Isobel to warm her side, no one will bear her company. At least my solitude is chosen.
Breakfast ends as quickly as it began. According to the schedule, I’m harvesting vegetables this morning. I look forward to spending time outdoors, reacquainting myself with the earth. The day is warm and sunlit, with puffy white clouds strung across the blue sky, the air plucking lightly at my cotton dress.
Unfortunately, I’m paired with Harper for the day’s work. She observes me from her perch on a slatted bench beneath one of the maple trees shading the enclosed herbarium. It’s strange to see her seated as opposed to standing, feet planted decisively, aggressively. To watch her eyes catch mine before flitting away.
Normally, my unease stirs in Harper’s presence, but now my heart thumps with the placid rhythm of the undisturbed. Perhaps that is why I decide to acknowledge her. “Good morning.” I still question her presence in the infirmary when I woke. She was my only visitor during my recovery.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
After gathering a basket, spade, and gloves, I crouch at one of the larger vegetable beds and begin yanking carrots free by their scraggly green tops, tossing them into my basket. For whatever reason, I have abandoned my gloves of late. The need to pull them on is strangely absent. Admittedly, I’ve enjoyed the varied textures against my skin. I delight in each one.
I finish one row, begin another. Harper’s attention feels hotter than the sun on my back. Still, I focus on my task. If she wants to speak with me, she’ll need to take that step herself.
Soil darkens my nails and sprinkles the tops of my thighs. With the first bed complete, I move on to the next. Maybe I do not remember much, but I remember this: the give of the earth beneath my fingers, the wrench of roots being pulled free.
“How are you recovering?”
I startle, dropping a fistful of carrots. Harper harvests a neighboring bed, hair restrained in a braid, sweat dotting her face. For once, she appears unconcerned by her rumpled state.
I gather the carrots I dropped. “Some lingering pain, but otherwise, I am well.” They fall into my basket with a solid thump.
“Did Mother Mabel inform you that the bear was killed?”
“She did.”
Harper shares in my relief, nodding far too enthusiastically for comfort. “I’m glad no one else got hurt.”
It was no bear,I nearly say, but what if I am wrong? Now that my wound has healed, I wonder: was it from a sword, as I believe, or has my perception altered as Mother Mabel claimed it would? I am no nearer to answers than I was weeks ago.
