Da’s face flashes in my mind. The glee on his killer’s face. The fight we had right before he died. Henry sending me away.
“Yes,” I say, “but some things can’t be forgiven.”
“They can,” says Bridgit. “They must.”
The three of us fall into an unspoken symbiosis as we bundle and tie the sheaves.
“De Guile,” says Bridgit after a while. “She was a gifted young girl when she came here, like yourselves. Only…” She stops herself.
“Too much salt in the sauce?” I suggest.
“Yes,” says the woman, smirking. “Too much salt in the sauce.”
* * *
—
When you’re starved of sleep from middle-of-the-night prayers, there’s nothing more defeating than losing even a few minutes. Wednesday morning, I wake to the song of robins and the blue wash of dawn at the window. I lie in bed, thinking of Mason, enjoying the warmth of this cocoon, the warmth of my own body under the thinnish covers.
Just then, the bell rings for prime. I slink into the pale green gown, reach over to the bedpost and put on the veil. My hose lie on the floor, and I pull them on and fasten them around my knees. Already I can’t wait to kick them off and head to the fields, but first, the scriptorium calls.
As I’m halfway through reviewing my pigment list, I hear the hammers starting, and I sigh. It’s too distracting.
“I’m going to get a drink of water,” I tell Bridgit, and head downstairs in the direction of the cloister fountain, but I divert my path toward the builders’ shed. Mason brightens when he sees me.
“Sister,” he says with a wink. He hands me a handkerchief and motions to his cheek. I wipe a smear of pigment from my own.
“Hello, stonemason,” I say. “The sun’s warm today. Cool under here, though.” I can’t help but flirt a bit.
“I suppose, unless you’re swinging a hammer,” Mason laughs. Sweat drips out from under his cap. He’s chiseling a rough, dark stone. The man across from him carves a vine into a piece of white limestone.
“I have something for you,” says Mason. He rummages through his satchel and takes out a little house made of polished marble, with tiny arched windows and doors. The sunlight catches it and makes it glow as he places it in my hand.
“This is for you,” he says.
“Oh, it’s heavier than I thought! It’s so fine, Mason. It looks like a proper home.” I smile and brush his arm. “Thank you.” The stone is cool. I turn it over in my hands. How I would love to shrink to the size of an ant and crawl into a place like this with him.
And with these thoughts of home, I wonder how Henry made it through winter. My heart feels somehow softer toward my big brother, now that I’m settled in here. I hope he’s found a way forward.
“Speaking of,” I say, “do you have any news from Hartley Cross? About…Henry?”
Mason looks uncomfortable. “Well, let me see,” he says. “On my way up here, I passed this village—so strange—they’d set up a guard and wouldn’t let us in. Said there was a pestilence in that place.” He points to another laborer. “Gilbert Carpenter over there said he heard the whole place is dead.”
“I wonder if it was the same town we passed,” I say. “Nothing but ghosts.”
“Might be. Strange, isn’t it? Oh, and guess what? Right before I left, Methilde Potter was betrothed!”
I’m scandalized. “No! To who?”
“That scabby-faced boy, the wainwright’s—”
“John, break’s over!” gruffs his foreman, looking at me. Mason gives an alarmed glance past my shoulder. I turn to see Agnes de Guile standing behind me. I hand Mason his handkerchief. He looks frozen.
“Edyth,” she says. “Go back to work.”
I slip the little stone house into my pocket and drag myself back to the scriptorium tower, without having gotten my drink of water.
— 15 —
Thousands of hay sheaves stand in the ochre field late that afternoon. I’m tying up my last bundle before I have to clean up when I hear the sharp crunch of someone approaching over the stubble.
“I’d like to speak with you, Edyth,” says Sub-Prioress Agnes. “Come with me.”
I try to finish tying the bundle.
“Leave it,” Agnes barks.
“But—”
Agnes grabs me by the wrist so hard, my fingers curl. I drop the bundle and the hay explodes everywhere. We trudge through the field and back in through the rear gate, past the infirmary and the stonemasons’ shelter, where Mason will be chiseling to the very last light of day. He gives me a careful glance.
The sub-prioress pulls me through the cloister toward the door of the prioress’s study. Agnes’s assistant, Felisia, is reading on a bench by the door. I haven’t seen her this close before. Her veil shifts, and I don’t mean to flinch, but I can see that the whole left side of her face is horribly disfigured from old burns. She smooths the veil into place and closes her book.
“Prioress Margaret is visiting the bishop,” says Agnes. “We’ll meet in here.” She dismisses the Dragon Nun, who retreats to light the lily-shaped candelabra in the cloister walk. The golden hour illuminates the study walls in that indescribable hue.
“Edyth of Hartley Cross,” Agnes says, sitting in the prioress’s chair. She brushes her palm across the blossoms of a potted lavender. “Speak, child.”
What should I say? Have I done something wrong? I rub my still-smarting wrist.
“I don’t think you’re a fish, are you?” Agnes chuckles, imitating the noiseless movements of my lips. I smile a little; I don’t know if she’s mocking me—but then, I never do know where I stand with her. She sees me rubbing my wrist. “I’ve been told I don’t know my own strength,” she says. “But tell me: Why do you think I wanted to talk to you?”
“Because…of the stonemason?”
“Should I have a reason to speak to you about that?”
I downplay our connection. “He’s just a friend from my village.”
“That may be,” says Agnes, “but the priory is a different world from your village.”
That’s the truth.
“Do you like it here, Edyth? You’ve been here, what, six, seven months now?”