“Harper,” I tease, seeking to lighten the mood. “Are you implying you’ll miss me?”
The woman sniffs. “I am saying no such thing.”
Through the open window, I catch sight of Mother Mabel crossing the outer grounds toward the church. With her hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of her robe, she glides ghostlike across the grass. Harper, who notices where my attention has gone, asks, “What does Mother Mabel think of your departure?”
My heart has not healed from her betrayal. It rests in pieces, the shards grinding painfully between breaths. It hurts. All those lies. All those dreams that never came true.
I’ve considered telling Harper the truth about Mother Mabel, but despite the abbess’ questionable behavior, she dearly loves Thornbrook. She cares for her charges. She sacrifices for our faith. She bleeds. Thornbrook needs Mother Mabel the way a plant needs sunlight.
“She is disappointed,” I admit. “She had high hopes for me.”
Wide blue eyes search mine. “Did you break your vows?”
Did I? Or was I merely following my heart?
Sorrow weighs upon my back, but I clear my throat, take a steadying breath. I haven’t even walked out the door and I already want to dive beneath my blanket, curl into a ball, and await the next sunrise. The Harper I know now is not the Harper I knew then. Whatever I confess will not pass beyond these walls. “I did.”
She nods, her expression solemn. I would like to think I see understanding there.
Grabbing my pack, I swing it over my shoulder and face Harper. Somehow, despite living as enemies for a decade, we are parting as friends. “I suppose this is goodbye.”
We stare at each other awkwardly, Harper in her white alb and diaconal red stole, me in my plain gray dress. It feels odd without the cincture at my waist, but I will grow used to it, in time.
I’m not sure who moves first, but we embrace. She feels small in my arms. Not weak. Never weak.
“Take care of yourself,” she whispers.
I remember Harper’s first words to me:Move, cow.But it is our last exchange I intend to carry with me.
As I reach the threshold, Harper asks, “Don’t you want your lantern?”
Against my better judgment, I glance at the lantern hanging in my window. The sight unnerves me. I’ve lit it nightly these past weeks, unable to temper the urge. I do not know why.
“Keep it,” I say, and quickly depart.
After stopping by the kitchen for bread and cheese, I head for the herbarium. A few apples, a handful of carrots, and I’ll be on my way. As I yank carrots from the soil, however, the back of my neck prickles. My hand, wrapped around the tufted greens, twitches for my dagger.
I’m up, spinning toward the shed, when I spot a figure hopping over the wall, vanishing from view.
Abandoning my pack, I dash through the raised beds and crash through the side gate leading to the outer grounds. Long, desperate strides carry me to the gatehouse. The porter opens the gate, and I dive through, catching sight of a man’s emerald cloak before Carterhaugh swallows his retreating form.
He will not escape me this time.
Dirt and pebbles fling from my bootheels as I navigate the winding trail downhill, racing over treacherous roots and moistened ground. He is a phantom, a flicker of light and shade. His long-legged stride sends him vaulting through the bottlebrush ferns.
“Wait!” Another leap over a fallen tree. I must see his face. I must learn his name. I must ask him why.
Yet he is simply too fast. Feet like quicksilver, a gait buoyed by the wind itself. My leaden legs pound the earth, and my chest burns, and still the distance between us grows.
But I do not stop running. Carterhaugh splits open before me, its canopy punched through by sunlight splashing the moss-eaten ground. I burst into a small clearing, chest heaving, sweat fusing the fabric of my dress to my skin. And there the man stands, aglow in dew and sun, hands in his trouser pockets as he watches me stumble, then slow.
My tired heart begins to thunder with renewed energy. Beneath his knee-length cloak, the stranger wears a gray tunic and simple brown trousers. He is the loveliest man I have ever laid eyes on. An impossible beauty, warm as flushed spring.
His eyes are green.
I’m staring. It’s rude, I know, but I can’t help myself. I remember my journal entries. I remember the sleepless nights, a gaze like cut gemstones flashing behind my eyes.
Today, I am bold.
