I watched the expression on her face, unsure if she was joking. She caught my eye and smiled wider. The oversize of her front teeth rather suited her, I thought. A subtle imperfection that somehow made her prettier.
After our tour, Sister Teresa said she was going to stay to tidy the garden, which I supposed meant the graveyard. I hovered, expecting Isabella to offer to wait for her. But to my surprise, she gave her thanks and steered me away from the building.
As she climbed through the gates, she shuddered, like a bird unfolding its wings. “Come on, Briddie, let’s get away from here; it’s giving me the creeps.” She lit a cigarette.
The climb back to the academy was even hotter than earlier in the day. Cicadas rattled in the sun-blanched thistles. I plucked a stem of rosemary from a bush and rubbed the oil between my fingers. At first it had made me queasy to imagine such a beautiful building filled with coughing and sickness. But now I was glad the invalids had been hosted in such gorgeous surroundings. When Rhona was in the hospital, it didn’t seem like the kind of place anyone could recuperate. The ward was overheated and it smelled like bleach and sour milk.
I pictured Rhona tucked under a yellow blanket, lying on a deck chair rolled out on the patio overlooking the water. She would drink mineral water and be put on a special float to paddle in the lake. I moved her into John Henry’s old room and furnished it with a chaise longue and a writing desk. And I would sneak a pet kitten into her room and she’d have to keep it hidden from the nurses. I would tell the girls I was volunteering, but secretly, I’d come down from the academy in the afternoons to visit her. We’d feed the kitten saucers of milk and sit by the lake and she could read her Civil War textbooks and I would study friezes from my art books.
“So who’s that old guy?” Isabella said.
With some effort I broke out of my reverie. “What?”
“Mr. Henry. I stood there quite stupidly while you and Sister Teresa were talking about him.”
I turned to her in disbelief. “But you must know who he is. There’s a whole section about him in the welcome file. Didn’t you read it?”
“No, Briddie.” She stuck out her tongue. “We’re not all boring little bookworms.”
The insult burned my windpipe, but I kept my voice steady. “He was the patron. Or founder. But I’m sure Sister Teresa would know all the details.”
We were quiet for a moment.
“She’s so funny,” I said, taking a chance.
Isabella watched me expectantly. “What do you mean?”
“‘And there is the—um, I don’t know the word—balustrade.’”
Isabella grinned. “And here I can’t even order a sandwich.”
“Maybe she’s trying to use up all the words in the dictionary before her speaking time runs out,” I said tentatively. Was I straying too close to sarcasm?
But Isabella hooted with laughter. “Good old Sister Vocabulary.”
13.
October
Over the course of three days, the sisters picked all the apples in the orchard until the boughs had a naked, startled look. As they worked in the avenues between the trees, snapping apples from the branches, it produced a rustling noise that swished through the corridors of the academy like the train of a wedding dress. Isabella and I watched them from our window and tried to distinguish nun from nun. Occasionally we saw Sister Teresa down in the orchard, smoking on the stone bench with Sister Luisa. Often, though, Sister Teresa’s “speaking” status meant she was sent to La Pentola or Brancorsi to stock up on Band-Aids or headache tablets or safety pins or any of the many other things the sisters couldn’t make for themselves.
On the Sunday of St. Teresa’s festival, the bells began ringing at five a.m. We congregated on the stairs, pale and puffy-faced, our eyes beady with sleep. Donna Maria ushered us into the courtyard, and we stood blinking into the morning. It was a perfect autumn day. The breeze was sharp and the light was thin and golden like weak juice.
As we stood yawning and stretching and adjusting our dresses, there came a strange murmur from the bottom of the hill.
“Look,” Nancy said.
A crowd of people from the village was slowly walking up toward the academy, humming a low dirge. At the head was Father Gavanto, holding aloft a cross decorated with paper leaves.
“The Inquisition,” Isabella whispered in my ear. “I knew Donna Maria was a secret witch.” I snorted.
The sisters filed out of the chapel, led by Sister Luisa. They crossed through the gate and walked through the double doors to join Father Gavanto. With a few words, he handed over the cross and Sister Luisa took it solemnly. I watched her face for any trace of emotion. Was she saying to herself Don’t drop it, don’t drop it, as any normal person would?
Donna Maria appeared, smiling her gummy smile. She gestured for us to back up to the far side of the courtyard, and we pressed against the wall as people from La Pentola shuffled through. Donna Maria returned, holding a white candle burning inside a metal lantern. Around the base of the candle were twigs of applewood and silk roses. She approached me and, reaching out, tucked my hair behind my ears. I froze, thinking in a wild moment she was about to offer me a benediction. But instead, she handed me the lantern and pointed into the crowd, speaking in Italian.
My hand shook so hard, the flame fluttered. “What do I do with this?” I said stupidly. “Nancy,” I hissed. “Nance, help.”
After a brief conversation with Donna Maria, Nancy turned to me. “You’re supposed to walk at the front of the girls, after the sisters. Then you put the candle on the shrine.”
A shiver ran through my jawline. “At the front?”
“Yup.” Nancy smiled. “Just go at the front and walk.”
I gulped, looking around. “Why me?”
Nancy frowned. “Why not you?”
I searched for Isabella, but she was talking to Sylvia and I couldn’t catch her attention. Swallowing, I squeezed through the crowd of girls and villagers from La Pentola, receiving a resplendent smile from Signora Bassi. The courtyard was crammed with people, humming, coughing, bemused-looking kids in their Sunday best. The lantern clattered against elbows and shoulder blades as I picked through the crowd. My stomach roiling, I took a place directly behind the sisters. I looked back for Isabella but instead caught Ruth’s eye. She was glowering at me from beside Donna Maria, her arms folded across her chest. In front of me I spotted Sister Teresa somewhere in the middle of the sisters. Like the other nuns, she had her mouth closed, her eyes focused on the ground.
Sister Luisa raised the cross aloft, and our procession began to climb the hillside toward the shrine. The narrow path was choked now with brambles and so we walked in single file, incrementally slowly. The grass was wet underfoot and the earth pearly with dew. The air was spicy with that first scent of autumn—smoke from singed leaves and an inkling of mist. The path was steep but I enjoyed being pulled by the weft of the crowd, as if I were hardly making any effort to walk at all. Hawthorn berries hung so heavy along the path it looked as if red wax had been splattered over the trees.