“You look down upon the world because you are not part of it,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “You are the watcher, not the seen. Do you understand?”
Mirela swallowed hard and nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “Yes, Master.”
Ferron kicked the shattered remains of the bottle away as he knelt next to Mirela. “Look at me when I am talking to you!”
Mirela squeezed her eyes shut. His breath smelled of something sour, like old wine gone rancid. He reached for her chin, his long fingers cold against her skin, and tilted her head upward until she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
“God, Mirela… If you only knew how much I love you, you wouldn’t go around trying to ruin this. Have I not done enough for you already? You must not forget,” he said softly, “I am the one who saved you. I found you when no one else even looked. I took pity on your wretched form and gave you a purpose.”
She swallowed hard, trying not to flinch under his touch, but with each passing second, Mirela felt a whirlwind of disgust deep in her stomach.
His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, then trailed upward, slow and deliberate, until it rested against her scarredcheek. The gesture should have been tender. It wasn’t, and Mirela wanted to pull away.
“No one else will ever care for you as I do. No one else could understand what you have gone through,” he murmured.
Before she could respond, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there a little too long.
Mirela froze, every muscle in her body rigid, her heart hammering in her throat. She could feel him breathe her in with an audible, guttural sound that made bile rise in her throat.
When he finally pulled back, she turned her face away, praying he wouldn’t notice the disgust twisting her features. If he did, he didn’t care.
Ferron’s hand slid from her cheek to her hair, petting her as though she were something tamed. Then he kissed her cheek, his lips cold and damp.
“Remember,” he said, straightening his robes. “The world outside these walls would burn you alive if they knew you still existed. I keep you safe here, Mirela. Do not make me regret it.”
She forced herself to nod. “I understand, Master.”
“Good. I was here hoping to go over the alphabet, perhaps even have lunch together, but since I can see you have already eaten…” he pushedthe basket with his foot once more, “I will be taking my leave. Behave, Mirela. I don’t think next time I will be so lenient.”
“Yes, sir,” Mirela whispered, her gaze stuck with the basket as the wooden floor groaned under his weight. His slow steps dissipated until there was just the cooing of the doves around her.
For a long time, Mirela didn’t move. She sat frozen, her skin crawling where his hands had touched her. Her scalp still stung where he pulled her hair. The silence pressed against her ears until it roared.
Finally, she drew her knees to her chest and buried her face against them, trembling.
Hours passed before she reached for her notebook. Her fingers shook as she drew, lines cutting into the paper. Fire. Falling beams. Smoke swallowed the vaulted ceiling. The great bells melting in their iron frames. The image startled her. With a sharp gasp, she snapped the notebook shut and pushed it away, the page sliding beneath her cot.
Her gaze fell on the basket and broken bottle of wine, still carrying the memory of Claire’s kindness and warmth. Mirela took the basket and clutched it to her chest, pressing her face to the cloth.
For the first time in weeks, the cold seemed to ease only because she knew that Ferron was wrong. There was someone out there who wanted her alive, wanted her well, and it wasn’t just him.
***
Mirela pulled at the ropes harshly, tolling the bells as loud as she could. Today was a special day, according to Master Ferron. Today, the cathedral would celebrate a wedding. It had been so long since there had been one, and Mirela would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t enjoy them.
After her altercation with the basket and Ferron, Mirela tried to stay away from trouble as much as she could. Yet that didn’t mean she had stopped thinking about Claire. On more than one quiet night, she had drawn her in her notebook sitting on the pews, singing in the choir. She even finished one of the sketches completely, telling herself that she would give it to her as another gift, beg her for forgiveness for their last talk, and ask her to be friends.
There was nothing bad about that, and she would be extra careful about Ferron. He had already visited her that week to tell her about the wedding, meaning that it would be another two to three days before he saw her once more.
If she was able to see Claire, she could sit down on the pews and talk.
Her heart warmed at the thought, and she tolled the bells harder, her smile spreading across her face.
She had been waiting patiently, hoping she would get to see her once more, but for reasons unknown to her, thathadn’t happened. She hadn’t seen the sisters in the cathedral, nor had she received any nightly visits from Claire.
Maybe Claire got caught and was in trouble. Maybe something happened to her? Or maybe the convent was just busy with other things. It wasn’t as if the convent had come to the cathedral and she wasn’t there. They just stopped visiting.
Mirela thought that filling her notebook with drawings of Claire would be enough to keep her from missing her even more, but today…
