But it couldn't be. . . the face hadbeen too ghastly for words. . .
Bartholomew hurried me away, through the fragrant woods as tiny flakes of snow began to swirl around us.
"Some unfortunate wild animal," he told me soothingly as I sat at his tiny table and drank strong bark tea. "What we heard could not possibly have been human."
I wanted to believe him. . . perhaps it was true; after all, there were many strange creatures on the moors.
I leaned back against the kindly man who had become my friend, trembling from the day's exertions and inhaling his comforting woodsy scent.
Perhaps it was not quite proper how closely we sat, how comfortable it felt to rest my head on his chest.
"Deliverance, I— am taking far too much pleasure in how close your body is to mine," Bartholomew groaned, his sweet breath rustling the heated curls around my throat.
"Surely—taking comfort in each other—cannot be wrong," I murmured, my cheeks pink with embarrassment.
He groaned again, reaching a hand up to smooth my wayward hair.
"My vow of chastity has never been tempted before you. But you are so soft—so sweet—so strong!"
"You are all kindness," I said, sittingup to look shyly at him. "I owe all my freedom—my whole safety here—to you!"
There was a faint spot of color on his cheeks, and he reached one hand out for me, gently taking a strand of my shorn golden hair between his fingers, before pulling away and saying in a low tone,
"I must pray to resist temptation."
But did I want him to succeed? Maybe if he had not taken a lifelong vow of celibacy?
And maybe if going toe-to-toe with my wicked husband hadn’t made my cunny pound so hard it ached. . .
I tried to forget him and settle into a routine at St. Mary's Abbey. Here I was loved and cared for, and had a purpose. It wasn’t long before I had moved from gathering the herbs, to learning to prepare ointments and unguents, and then to working in the infirmary.
As my belly grew, I had to abandon the ruse that I was a boy, but as far as anyone knew, I was simply a fallen woman rescued by St. Mary's.
But with my hair cut and in my monk’s robe, there was no way to prove I was the delicate, well-bred, unfortunate young wife of Mr. Nightshade.
As my belly grew and my baby danced inside me, I began to specialize in the healing arts, treating ailments like common colds, pox, and injuries, even helping out when a few townspeople came for help delivering babies.
On Christmas there were several packages left at the gate for me, and a man waiting in the shadows to see what I did with them.
And once the strong lock had clanged shut, I wrapped my warm winter cloak around me and destroyed the boxes all, oneby one, smashed them with my foot to find diamond necklaces, sapphire rings, fine jewels, and delicate silken gloves and stockings. The gloves and stockings I tore to pieces, the jewelry I took to Bartholomew to fund St. Mary's charitable activities.
“Enjoying my money?” I called out, then turned on my heel and left.
Mr. Nightshade could rage from the outside all he liked, but with such strange sightings on the moors, such strange and eerie howlings at night, Bartholomew had succeeded in putting more guards around the Abbey walls.
And for a time there was no more word of him.
I comforted myself with visions of his mangled body lying at the bottom of a deep crevice, but somehow, I could still taste his vengeance and obsession on my tongue every time I drew a breath of piercing winter air.
No, Gideon Nightshade still lived. I would feel it when he died.
Then one gray late winter day when the clouds hung low over the St. Mary's grounds and there was a whiff of smoke in the air, they brought in a patient for me to care for.
He was a big man clad in a rough brown monastic robe, his head shaven as befit a holy man, and I hurried over with my healing herbs and balms.
"He looks badly burned, Angel," Sister Win told me, her voice laced with concern.
"How did this happen?" I cried, seeing the peeling flesh up and down the brother’s arms and the charred tips of his fingers.
