I move with haste, tucking myself into the shadows along the pillar-lined cloister. By some miracle, I manage to navigate the corridors unseen, slipping wraith-like onto the outer grounds.
Darkness coats the cobblestoned courtyard and its ring of trees. The herbarium sits on the other side of an open gate to my left; tucked inside is a small shed whose door swings open to reveal pails, gardening tools, and a cart to carry heavy burdens. To muffle the creak of the wheels, I oil the axles of the cart, then toss a blanket into the back. Thankfully, I reach the gatehouse without incident.
Since Thornbrook hasn’t the funds to hire a night watch, I lift the gate with painstaking slowness. The crank shrieks so loudly I’m certain the townsfolk of Kilkare will hear it. I glance over my shoulder as a wave of cold pebbles my skin.
Nothing. Neither movement nor sound. Fear of discovery hastens me. As soon as the opening is large enough, I haul the cart through and lower the gate behind me. The iron barricade is all that stands between Thornbrook and the fair folk.
It’s a slow journey through the dark. Moonlight brightens the earth’s swells in silver, for which I’m grateful. The cart bounces and clatters onward, four wheels rolling sloppily over the uneven terrain.
I tread cautiously, for the fair folk revel in their nightly schemes. Not much farther. I lift my lantern high, let its orange light brighten the surrounding area. If memory serves me correctly, it is here I ventured off the path to collect pearl blossom—
And there lies the man.
He is exactly where I left him, spread-eagled in the dirt. It is strange. He seems to blend in with the soil, the ferns curling over his torso in a disconcerting impression of affection. I’m relieved by the rise and fall of his chest.
After setting down my lantern, I tug on my gloves and arrange his arms against his sides. My waist is thrice the size of his, my arms broad,heavy with muscle. Thus, it takes little effort to lift him into the cart. I cover him with the blanket for warmth.
The return trip takes an age. With a misaligned wheel, the cart veers crookedly over the ground, and the burn of exertion hooks talons into my upper thighs. Yet I push onward up the mountain, up and up and up. The ground levels off, then climbs once more as the east lightens. Soon, color will run cracks through the world.
By the time I reach the crumbling abbey walls, sweat pools beneath my arms. With dawn so near, it would be foolish to haul the cart back onto the grounds. I discard it outside the entrance, along with the lantern, heave the man across my shoulders, and enter Thornbrook via the gatehouse.
A worn footpath rounds the back of the forge where the smoky air lingers. After a few paces, I stop to adjust the man’s weight. Despite the filth coating his garb, a sweet scent, like moss and sunshine, drifts from his skin. I cannot hide him here, for Mother Mabel often drops by unannounced. My options are limited: the infirmary, or my dormitory. Ideally, I would take him to the infirmary, but with men barred from the abbey, I fear the physician would cast him out to the elements despite his injuries. And I cannot abandon him. This I know. Only my room will provide sanctuary.
My ears strain for sound as I pass through the herbarium, skirting the raised beds of vegetables and medicinal herbs before entering the cloister. Voices drift like a muffled fog through the pillars of stone. Who would be up this late? Curfew was hours ago.
I slow as I turn a corner. A dark, quiet passage, brightened by islands of flickering light. Moments later, a silhouette, tall and rigid, materializes at the end of the hall.
My blood turns to ice.
I dare not stir, though my muscles strain beneath the man’s weight. The distance is too great to determine if Mother Mabel looks this way, but something has caught her eye. As the twinge in my lower back lights to a brushfire, a whimper slips out, cracking the silence of the warm evening.
Her head swings in my direction. Shadow engulfs her form save the sheen of her eyes, the glint of her gold, serpentine necklace.
“Mother Mabel,” someone calls.
She startles, whirls toward dark-eyed Fiona, one of the novitiates. “My dear. What are you doing up at this hour?” Together, they stride in the opposite direction, vanishing through the doors leading to the church.
Silent as the dead, I climb the narrow dormitory staircase. I’m panting by the time I reach my bedroom. The door opens soundlessly, then shuts, a muffled click as I engage the lock.
My knees immediately liquify, and the man slides face down onto my cot seconds before I sink to the floor.
That was far too close.
To touch a man’s flesh is a grave sin. To house a man, unchaperoned, in one’s room? The thought of repercussions tightens my airway. We’ve all heard the gossip: women who had given themselves to faith, suddenly banished out into the cold, their vows broken.
No home.
No warmth.
No purpose.
No god.
But—the man.
Pushing to my feet, I turn to inspect my guest by the glow of the still-burning lamp. The rip in his tunic reveals a smooth, muscled chest covered in sparse brown hair. I push the fabric aside, revealing yet more wounds. A beating? If so, this is not the work of the fair folk. Those who dwell in Under enjoy their violence. It is a game to them. The objective is never to end, but to prolong, always. Why snap when you can bend and tear and wrench?
I straighten the man’s legs, which are so long they hang off the edge of my cot. Then I rummage through the chest at the foot of my bed, searching among my few worldly possessions. For I had another life before this one, long ago.
