“The midday bell rang a short while ago.” Isobel and Fiona stand as a single unit against me, wariness in their eyes. “She is at the church.”
The weight of their suspicion trails me as I head for the church, hurrying as quickly as my weary soles will allow. My dress has dried into a crusty mess, and my red curls have become so snarled it will takethe entire evening to separate them. Mother Mabel will know something is amiss.
The sanctuary doors stand open. It feels silly to wash my hands when the rest of me is so filthy, but I stop to use the lavabo prior to entering, watching the clouded water settle into the basin. The air cools as I step onto hallowed ground: gray stone walls, jeweled glass. The rug that runs between the rows of pews mutes my footsteps as I pad toward the altar, atop which the trio of candles burn. Father, Son, Holy Ghost. Never to be extinguished.
Mother Mabel kneels at the railing surrounding the sanctuary, her back to me. She wears the ornate, sleeveless chasuble, which she dons during Mass and other ceremonial events, a symbol of her unselfish service. Beneath it, the billowing white sleeves of her alb frame her clasped hands.
Joining her at the railing, I kneel on the cushion and bow my head. What are the ways in which I’ve strayed?
I have taken a man into my room.
I have watched a private, sexual act and did not shut my eyes to it.
I have entered a place that is forbidden to me.
Shame rises to clot my airway. It hardens, becomes stone.Forgive me, Father. For He will know where I have been and with whom.
Mother Mabel stirs at my side. A long exhalation streams from her beaked nose. “I have questions for you,” she murmurs.
My eyes open, and I turn to meet her gaze. My stomach twists. Disapproval or disappointment? I’m not sure which is worse. “Yes, Mother Mabel.”
“Come.” Pushing to her feet, she gestures for me to follow.
A short aisle branching from the main altar flows into the sacristy. The tiny room is barred by a heavy oaken door, which thuds shut upon our entrance, the wood thick enough to muffle any sounds from within.
I have visited the sacristy countless times over the past decade. Here, the abbess vests and prepares for service. It also houses the sacred vessels used during Mass—the altar linings, the chalice and paten, and the Text itself.
Tapestries depicting particularly violent scenes from our literature line the walls: the story of Byron, from the Book of Fate, who was beheaded after admitting to incestuous relations with his daughter; the story of Bram—Carterhaugh’s last true king before northern barbarians slaughtered his clan—from the Book of Night.
“Sit,” Mother Mabel says.
I obey. It is for the best, since my knees have begun to tremble. The abbess’ features are never more severe than when cast in the shadow-dark flicker of candlelight.
She strides past me with a scuff of silk slippers. “You were missed this week, Brielle. When you did not show up for service, your fellow novitiates believed you to have fallen ill.” She stalls, pivots, and slowly paces the opposite direction, sweet incense wafting in her wake. “But when Fiona checked your room, she found it empty, your bed unmade.”
Nothing I might say could explain my absence. I cannot stop a stone rolling downhill.
Sometimes it is easier to say nothing.
“When you did not show up for breakfast, I grew worried. It is unlike you to miss meals, which is why, when evening fell, I decided something terrible must have befallen you and called on the sheriff.”
The hair on my body stiffens. Then it is true. Someone must have trekked all the way to Kilkare to alert him to my disappearance.
“He lost your trail at the River Twee. We feared you had drowned.”
My eyes widen at this. When a person drowns, their soul is denied the opportunity to pass into the Eternal Lands. Water, which touches the earth, rather than the heavens, is believed to store the sins of all who have come before us.
“No, Mother Mabel.” My sweating palms stick to the inside of my gloves as I rub my hands over my thighs. “I am well, as you can see.”
“I’m glad,” she replies, but the terseness of her response reveals her distaste for my frazzled appearance. “It is a miracle you have returned healthy and whole.” There is a pause. “I would like an explanation.”
She demands something I am unable to divulge. By entering Under prior to the tithe, I have broken the abbey’s oldest rule, set in place to secure our safety in the wilds of Carterhaugh.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, and bow deeper. “I left because I wanted to help gather supplies for the physician, but it is no excuse.”
“And what, exactly, did Maria ask you to gather?”
“Pearl blossom,” I stutter.
