A small, woven basket holds a plethora of poultices and balms—the work of my mother. Unscrewing the top off a glass bottle, I poura small amount of ointment into my gloved palm, coating the leather to a high shine.
I begin with the worst of the bruising—the underside of his jaw. As the swelling on the man’s face begins to recede, I pluck leaves and twigs from his hair, brush the curls from his face. Fringed lashes rest upon lightly freckled cheekbones. The color of his eyes remains hidden from me.
And then, inevitably, the tolling of the bell: dawn.
Followed by a knock at the door.
3
THE DOORKNOB RATTLES. “BRIELLE!” A barked command.
My pulse scatters, and I leap halfway across the room before remembering the door is securely fastened.
“Mother Mabel wants to speak with you.” Another rattle. The doorframe groans in protest. “Why is the door locked?”
I look to the door, the bed, the window. Blood throbs in my ears. It branches down my limbs in a paralyzing cold. Two, three, four heartbeats later, I’m still rooted to the spot.
All Daughters of Thornbrook receive keys to their bedrooms when admitted as novitiates, though most rarely utilize them. Only twice in ten years have I used mine. This is the second occurrence.
“I’m changing,” I croak. Footsteps echo through the corridors as everyone heads to the church.
A scoff through the door. “I suppose youwouldneed a locked door for that. Kind of you to consider others.”
The insult is but a distant nuisance. What am I supposed to do with the man on my bed? And why have I been summoned prior to service? Is it possible Mother Mabel spotted me last night in the cloister?
My hands shake as I peel the sweaty cotton from my body and don a clean dress, fumbling with the buttons stamped down its front. Through my window, the sleeping world has warmed to violet, and gold rims the curve of the earth.
“While I’m still young, Brielle.”
I flinch despite the barrier separating us. But she cannot hurt me if I keep it hidden. As for my unexpected guest, I toss a blanket over him—the best I can do for now. Whatever follows, I leave it in the Father’s hands.
I unlock the door to reveal a small-boned woman outfitted in the same gray, long-sleeved dress that all Daughters of Thornbrook wear, a clean alb tossed over one arm. Her name is Harper, and she is a woman of three temperaments: cross, irate, and hellish.
The first two, she reserves for her closest friend, Isobel. The last, she reserves only for me.
Her lip curls. “You look like a cow.”
“At least I don’t have the brains of one.”
Harper blinks at the unexpected rebuttal. “Excuse me?” She draws herself higher, though the top of her head barely reaches my nose.
Before Harper can peer into my room, I grab my robe from its hook, snap the door shut, and lock it.
Two eyes the color of lake water narrow at the sight. “Something to hide?” she murmurs, blocking my way forward.
“I have the right to privacy,” I mutter. “Please excuse me.”
She doesn’t move.
It takes a heroic effort not to give ground. I glance around the corridor. The novitiates have gone, and we stand alone.
“Did Mother Mabel request my presence or not?” If so, then I must not delay. Tardiness is grounds for punishment.
Harper’s mouth curls in a half-smile. Her long, shining black hair is secured in a plait down her back. “You are a mindless dog, Brielle. It is not becoming of you.” She shakes her head in vicious amusement. “Worry not. Mother Mabel isn’t expecting you. Why, she wouldn’t care to call on you anyway.”
Shame flushes my pale skin. If I am not a cow, then I am a dog, or a pig, or a rat, or some other useless creature. Unsurprisingly, this is merely a visit to antagonize me.
I stand there, quietly seething, until Harper flounces down the hall. With her disappearance, my heart slows its pace. The bell clangs thrice: once for the Father, once for the Son, once for the Holy Ghost. And I am officially late for service.
