I assume that will be the extent of our conversation, but Harper surprises me by adding, “If you’re feeling tired, I can finish the harvest. It’s not an issue.”
I do not trust her intentions. A mouse does not willingly venture into the nest of a snake. “Why do you pretend to care for me?” I ask, unable to contain my frustration.
“It is no lie. I swear it.”
I stare at Harper. First the infirmary, and now this. “So you claim. You have always treated me with contempt.”
“I know.” At least she has the decency to appear remorseful.
“Then why?”
“According to the Text—”
“Oh, please.” Now she mocks me. “As if you care about that.” I return to ripping up carrots, soil flying.
Harper falls quiet.
When my basket overflows with vegetables, I grab another from the shed. Harper kneels in place, staring at her gloved hands, her small frame swallowed by her gray dress. If I’m not mistaken, she has recently lost weight. I sigh, toss another carrot onto my pile, and demand, “Have I offended you?”
She frowns, brushes the dark soil from her palms. “I guess I never realized how small I made others feel.”
Does she expect an apology? “Guilt is a terrible thing.” I regard her with limited patience.
A dull flush colors her sweaty cheeks as she drops her attention to the ground. “I’ve had to face”—deep breath—“uncomfortable truths about myself. Namely, that my behavior has been harmful to the abbey, our peers.”
“You don’t say.”
Her mouth parts, then clamps shut. “I don’t remember you being this spirited,” she says, blue eyes narrowed.
I shrug. I wasted so much of my life obsessing over Harper’s opinion of me, but her insults have lost their sting. I’d like to think I’ve evolved.
There does, however, remain one mystery I’d like settled. “Why aren’t you and Isobel friends anymore?” They had been attached at the hip since I arrived at Thornbrook. It is a difficult thing, navigating the world friendless.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I think we became different people.” Her brow furrows. “I’ve asked Isobel what happened between us. She said I had changed.”
I don’t recall this change. Perhaps it dwells in the hole of my mind. “Do you think you’ve changed?” There is, undeniably, a softness to Harper that was not previously present, a new and welcome vulnerability.
She drops her spade into the bucket with a clatter. “It is hard to see change from within, is it not?”
Wise words from a woman I believed possessed not even a shred of self-awareness.
She taps a finger against her leg with obvious hesitation, then: “Has your memory returned?”
“No.” Daily, I scour my mind for any flicker of recognition, an anchor I might use to ground myself. But—nothing.
Harper nods, as if that was to be expected. But something in her expression snags my attention and refuses to let go.
Dropping her voice so it will not carry over the moss-eaten walls, Harper says, “The truth is, I have blank spots in my memory, too.”
Carefully, I set my basket aside. I glance around the herbarium, but we are alone in the walled garden with its neat rows of vegetable beds. “You’re certain?” I’ve told no one my suspicion about the sword wound. I don’t want that getting back to Mother Mabel.
“Yes.”
“Did you participate in the tithe?” That would explain it—those who participate have their memories of the experience wiped.
“I think so?” Harper abandons her post to kneel at my side. She holds out her hand, pointing to the scar across her palm, evidence of her contribution. “The problem is, I remember nothing of the tithe, nor of the months preceding it. I don’t even remember when I became an acolyte.” She gestures to her cincture, twisted into its trio of knots. “Wouldn’t I remember my ceremony, or at the very least, whatever task I was given to prove myself worthy of the station?”
She makes a good point. “What else have you forgotten?”
