For I am a bladesmith, but I did not place a hammer in my hand. Mother Mabel did. I did not choose to come to Thornbrook. My mother abandoned me. The Text tells me how to interpret the world, what is acceptable and what is not, what morals shape a woman or a man.
I love the Father, but can I not love Him without the title of novitiate? I’m not rushing to leave. I don’twantto leave. But I wonder what else awaits me out there, what shape my life would take if I chose differently.
“Have you given thought to my proposal?”
I refocus on Mother Mabel. Last week, she asked if I was interested in participating in the tithe tomorrow evening. It would give me an excuse to return to Under and search for Zephyrus. Alternatively, I could abandon the West Wind as he abandoned me. I could stay here, in Carterhaugh. I could forget.
“If I could offer you some advice?” It is kindly, her tone. For whatever reason, my throat tightens with impending tears. “Go to the church tonight. Speak to the Father. Maybe He can help guide your path.”
I gaze out the window. A blue sky speckled with wistful clouds, the perfect day for a morning stroll. How quickly my mind returns to a green-eyed god.
“It is your choice, in the end,” Mother Mabel says. “Should you choose to participate, we will gather in the quadrangle tomorrow at dusk. Take the day to think about it.”
Bowing my head, I reply, “I will.”
Pushing to my feet, I make my way to the door. Before I depart, however, I’ve one more question that needs answering. “Why did the fair folk let you live?”
Mother Mabel stares at me coldly. “They did notletme live. Seven years I was trapped in Under, enduring countless horrors, without hope of ever escaping. I did what I had to do to return to Carterhaugh, and I don’t regret it.” A thin, dark smile crawls across her mouth. “It turns out, there are some things not even Under can break.”
25
LATER THAT EVENING, ILIGHTmy lamp. The wick catches, a star sheltered within the thin, curved glass, etching fine shadows across the contents of my bedroom. My heart beats rabbit-quick, yet my hands are steady as I push open the shutters to hang the lamp in my window, as I had once done months before.
The bell tolls, marking the eighth hour. Beyond the window, the air hangs static and warm from recent rain. I’m not so naive as to believe Zephyrus will see the lamp. After all, I have not sensed his presence in weeks. But if not him, then perhaps someone across the strait who seeks a light in the darkness, as I do.
After gathering clean clothes, I hasten for the bathhouse, soap and washcloth in hand. Though curfew isn’t yet in effect, my peers have begun their evening prayers in the privacy of their dormitories. As for me, I’ve shut my emotions in rooms with locked doors, but tonight, I am ready to face them.
Upon reaching the bathhouse, I step into the tiled entryway. Empty, as suspected. A large, sunken tub claims the floor, three curved steps descending into the still pool.
My dress and undergarments fall away. I submerge myself in the chilly bathwater. Remnants from recent washings swirl in greasy clouds. Shivering, I force my head beneath the surface.
Obedience.
The water holds peace. Cold and muted it may be, but it casts no judgment. When my lungs pinch, I surge upward, head breaking the surface. I drag my soapy washcloth across my skin, prying every speck of dirt free until I am pink, flushed as a newborn.
Purity.
Dressed in a clean, dry alb, I head for the church. Its massive doors lie open, the nave’s expansive belly resting in shadow broken by wells of light—the altar candles, which burn eternal.
Devotion.
Pews, arranged in tidy rows, await the warm bodies of tomorrow’s Mass. The windows of brightly colored glass have extinguished. A rug unfurls, fern-like, down the center of the space before pooling at the altar’s base: white marble draped in crimson cloth.
I rinse my hands in the lavabo. Once purified, I stride toward the low railing separating the presbytery from the sanctuary. There, I kneel upon the long, embroidered cushion, heart thundering. The roselight pulses weakly in my pocket.
Bowing my head, I rest my interlaced fingers on the wooden railing where we take Communion. I have found myself in these walls not once, but again and again. I seek the church because I am adrift and hope to find a bit of rock to cling to for a while.
“Hello, Father,” I murmur. “It has been four weeks since my last visit.” And I have borne that weight each passing day.
“First, I must say it was not my intention to ignore you, but much has happened since then.” My voice, stricken with shame, hoarsens. “I have made questionable decisions. I brought a man into the abbey, but I confess that is the least of my transgressions.”
The altar candles flare despite the lack of breeze. I tighten my sweaty fists until the shaking subsides. It must be said. I will shed all that I have carried, this fear of a slow altering within me. I will squeeze the confession from my tightening throat, every last drop wrung free.
“I had sexual relations with this man, Father.” It sounds appalling when spoken aloud. “His name is Zephyrus. He kissed me, touched me,and I confess that I wanted it. It’s wrong, Iknowit’s wrong. A Daughter of Thornbrook must never yearn for man’s flesh. But I hungered for him.”
I shrink in place, tensing as a cold wind cuts across the crown of my skull, stirring the damp red curls. The Father is not pleased. That is to be expected.
“I know I shouldn’t have trusted him. I told myself to keep my distance. And yet, I felt my will weakening in his presence. He is not like you, Father. He is selfish and self-serving, manipulative and careless.” And sad, and desperate, and perhaps unwhole. “I confess that I care for him, despite his betrayal.”
