Thornbrook is a vast complex anchored by a cloister, each open-aired passage facing one of the four cardinal directions. The church, the largest of the buildings, sits north of the cloister—the heartbeat of a devout life. Tucked against the cloister’s eastern edge is the dormitory, with the lavatory and bathhouse attached to the end of the oblong edifice. The refectory sits south of the cloister. It is there the Daughters of Thornbrook gather for meals.
Following Mass, we head for breakfast. The cool darkness of the refectory welcomes me as I sidle through the entrance behind my peers. Simple wooden tables and long benches line the stone hall, enough to comfortably seat one hundred. Open windows line the eastern wall, welcoming the heavy, loam-scented breeze.
The hall is so quiet nothing can be heard beyond the padding of slippered feet. Grabbing a bowl, I plop a spoonful of porridge from the pot. My stomach cramps unpleasantly. Most mornings I’m not hungry, but I force myself to eat, knowing the next meal won’t be until noon, after an entire morning of hard labor.
Meals are a simple affair. There is always bread, always wine, always vegetables and fruits, rarely meat, and only if one is sick. Since I know better than to drink the water—who knows whether the fair folk have tampered with the well—I pour a cup of wine from the barrel, then choose an empty table near the back. Moments later, the doors open. I snap to attention, as do the rest of my peers.
Mother Mabel arrives draped in heavy folds of white. A gold stole warms her shoulders and hangs in equal lengths down her chest, the trinity knot embroidered at both ends. Acolytes wear the diaconal redstole to represent service. The gold stole, however, represents authority of the faith.
The Abbess of Thornbrook is an ancient woman, though she appears no older than middle-aged. No lines carve her face. Nothing droops below her chin. She stands as the tallest of pines, and glides toward her dining area atop the dais.
Stepping onto the platform, she surveys the room, her white-blond hair pulled into a bun. Snapping black eyes sit beneath pale, slashing eyebrows. Many claim her eyes used to be blue.
According to some of the older acolytes, Mother Mabel was stolen away into Under decades ago, having sacrificed herself to save three novitiates abducted by Under’s overlord, yet somehow she managed to escape. No one knows what occurred during her time there. She returned to Carterhaugh with an undying appearance—the mark of everlasting life.
“All rise for the morning prayer.”
Benches scrape as the women push to their feet. Heads bowed, hands clasped at our fronts, we speak as one.
“Eternal Father, bless this food to nourish our bodies, and strengthen the bonds that bind us to you.”
I lift my head. Mother Mabel’s gaze captures mine, its intensity burrowing straight through me.
With a softly uttered “amen,” I drop onto the bench, weak in the knees. Does she know of my disobedience? The man in my bed? It is too early to say. Following prayers, we dine in silence, using the opportunity to reflect upon our relationship with the Father. I focus on eating, the spoon scraping the bottom of my clay bowl. Eventually, her attention moves elsewhere, and I’m able to breathe freely.
At the table diagonal to me, raven-haired Harper settles next to silver-tongued Isobel, chin haughty, a queen before her subjects. When I close my eyes, I remember all that I have weathered: lashing insults, barbed words hurled down with stinging force. Cruelty, every shade of it.
Of course, no reign would be complete without a band of slavering followers. Today, three novitiates have joined Harper and Isobel,thrilled to finally be included in their circle. It pains me to remember that I once desired to sit in their place.
Breakfast ends just as it begins: in silence. Everyone carries their dishware to the kitchen before heading off to complete morning chores.
The abbey itself shelters fourteen acres within its fortified wall. In addition to the main complex, there is the herbarium, the stables, a few storehouses, the winery, fields of varying crops, and the forge. The remaining grounds contain plenty of benches and shade trees for prayer or meditation. Like all abbeys, Thornbrook is self-sustaining. There is always something to be done.
Those of us assigned to harvest barley congregate at the garden shed. On the eve of the tithe, when another seven-year cycle comes to a close, we will place milk and barley on the sills of our open windows, the thresholds of our doorways. A shield against the fair folk on the night when the veil between realms grows thin.
One woman grabs the twine. Another snatches the sickles and hurries toward the fields in the distance. Two more swipe the pails. What is left? The cart.
I am built for such labor, I suppose.
The wheels of the cart clatter over the trail, and I’m relieved to have had the foresight to return it to its proper place late last night. A sweet-smelling wind grazes the bottle-brush stalks, bending them in ebbing waves.
I cut barley until sweat drenches my clothes, back bent, neck crisping in the sun. Again and again, my thoughts drift toward my unconscious visitor. Each time, I recenter my focus. At noon, we break for lunch and individual prayer, then return to harvesting, tying the barley into bundles for drying until the bell tolls the third hour.
Lessons occur for two hours daily, except on the Holy Days. Reading, writing, astronomy, arithmetic, geometry. I’ve enough time to wipe myself clean within the privacy of the bathhouse before hurrying toward the library. After lessons, there is dinner in the refectory, followed by an hour of service. As I trail the women slogging up the dormitory stairs, the wall sconces flicker, though the abbey’s passageways containno windows to provide a breeze. I’m halfway down the hall when I spot Harper hovering in her doorway, regarding me with suspicion.
The pit in my stomach pinches uncomfortably. Behind those frigid eyes, I can almost see her thoughts churning, slotting into place like a metal trap. Harper is cunning. She understands the subtleties of human behavior.
My gaze drops, and I shuffle toward my bedroom. Her attention follows me until I’m locked safely inside.
Moonlight slides over the vague, blanketed form lying on the cot. The man hasn’t moved since this morning. That worries me. Is it possible he is more grievously injured than I originally suspected? Still, I cannot risk bringing him to the attention of Thornbrook’s in-house physician. The question remains: What am I to do with a man who will not wake?
After slipping on my gloves, I move to his bedside and remove the blanket, prodding the base of his skull beneath the gold-tipped curls. No evident swelling. That is good. At least his breathing has evened into a slow, peaceful cadence.
“Who are you?” I whisper. “Where do you come from?”
The man does not answer.
4
