“Trust me, the only ones who actually know are me, Joan and Bridgit. But the next time you feel one of these things coming on, take my advice: put down the pestle, fold your hands in your lap and shut your eyes until it passes. Don’t risk it.”
“I hope you’re right. I hope no one else really knows. Swear you won’t tell.”
“I’m not supposed to swear, Edyth. But I promise. And I’m good for my word.”
“Then, Alice,” I say, cautiously changing the subject, “would you be willing to do something else for me?”
“What, get a message to your Mason?” she teases me.
My cheeks flush. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re not a nun, like me. Technically, you don’t have to renounce the world. You’ll have to be creative to keep it hidden, of course, but sure, I’ll be your messenger.”
“Oh, Alice, thank you!” I throw my arms around her. “You really are a true friend.”
“That’s fine,” she says, hugging me back. “But I will be expecting details.”
— 13 —
The white skeletons of trees reach up toward the sun, begging for warmth. A late-spring snow casts a pale shroud over everything, dusty and disintegrating, the wind peeling it away a layer at a time. But plump snowdrops are starting to push up from the frosty ground, and the hellebores’ miraculous blooms hover over mounds of star-shaped leaves.
From the array of baskets on the shed wall, I choose a shallow one and lay down a damp cloth to wrap the stems in, take the shears and go out to collect the early flowers. Past the churchyard and stables, they grow thickest against the priory wall. I miss clipping garden flowers with Mam. I can’t help thinking of how this could all have been so different.
* * *
—
Spring, when cows are in the early grass, is the best time for milk. It’s rich and fat and even a little yellow from the field flowers. There’s nothing slight about the butter it makes, or the thick cream, spread on warm bread.
I had finished the afternoon milking, and by the light of the late-evening candle, I took the cloth from the top of the clay pot and skimmed off the risen cream. Even in the almost-dark, the slow pull of spoon through milk rippled soft hues before me, the strong, round smell of it.
My father appeared, sudden but hushed, in the doorway of the cow barn.
“Come here, Edie,” Da whispered. “Do you want to see something wonderful?”
I covered the milk and cream and followed him into the sheep shed. The last ewe was finally lambing in the dim light. We watched the late lamb tumble out, days after the other sheep had given birth.
“Isn’t it a miracle?” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Think of her, waddling around the field like a ball, just a round ol’ sheep, like, and you can forget there’s a life in there.”
“Like Mam.” I smiled, pressing my cheek to his arm.
“Just like,” Da said, pulling me close.
“Da? Will she be all right?”
“What—the ewe? She’ll be fine.”
“No, I mean Mam. After all the other babies she’s lost—she’s tired and…older. What if something happens?”
Da sighed. The mother sheep licked her baby clean. The little one trembled and fussed.
“Edie, you know I’ve never lied to you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Da. Of course.”
“Then I’m going to tell it to you true. You never knew me mam and da. They died in the famine when I was a boy. But me brothers and sisters and I, we went on. We took what they taught us, and the love they gave us, and it was enough for us to fight with. If anything happens to your mother, she’ll have given you enough. You’ll have what you need.”
“But it’s not about what I need. I couldn’t live without her. She’s the only one who understands—”
“It’s not only the people who are like you who can understand you, Edie.”
“I know, Da, but—”
“People die, Edyth,” he said abruptly. “Parents, and children, and the lonely, the rich, the poor. It’s never fair. It’s never the right time.”
“You’re scaring me.” I clung to him even harder.
“Now, I’m not going to sweeten this for you—your mam’s good at saying those soothing things. But not me. It’s a hard world, this. But one thing I know: you’ll never be alone. Even if you go off and live among strangers in some far place, the right folks will always be there. People who see you for you. Ones who are willing to try. You will have to look for them, and be willing to see them, too.
“And you know, don’t you? People don’t really die. They’re just changed, like seeds break into wheat. All right,” he chuckled, “some change into weeds, too. But you, me girl, you must live so that when it’s your time, your life counts like wheat, not weeds. And I’ll do the same.”
We watched as the lamb stood at last on its wobbling legs and immediately butted against its mother’s belly for milk. Even minutes old, the little one somehow knew what to do.
* * *
—
Sunday night after compline, the moon above is full. Mason meets me, as we’ve arranged, in the shadows behind the chapel, and we sit against the outer wall. The branches wave over us; the clay is cool beneath. We can’t be together long—Alice is ready with a few alibis just in case—but we hold hands, talk in whispers, kiss a lot. There’s no mention of future plans; we simply wait here between layers of life and time.
“Mason.” I make my voice casual and a little teasing, even though the question I’m about to ask is serious.
“Edyth.”
“Why did you come here? Why did you seek me out?”
He grins. “What kind of question is that?”
“Is it because I’m familiar—Edyth from the village? You’re free. You could have your choice. Shouldn’t you be with someone who isn’t bound in a priory…and”—I nervously fiddle with my messy braids—“someone…prettier?”
He reaches for my discarded veil and puts it back over my hair. “Edyth,” he coos, smoothing the linen, “you’re beautiful. You’re…different.”
“You don’t have to remind me. I hate that word, different.”