Exhausted and happy, we watch the bonfires begin to dwindle; the nuns have gone up to the dormitory to sleep. I’m not one of them. Instead, I fall asleep in Mason’s arms, close to him, but no closer to an answer about what’s next.
* * *
—
I wake alone against the outside wall with the fields still smoking, the wilted flower crown still on my head, Mason’s woolen hood as a pillow. It’s morning, Saint John’s Day, and by the time the bell rings for terce, it’s already warming up. I hear footsteps on the gravel path coming toward the field gate and know at once that I’m in deep trouble.
“Get those flowers out of your hair and put your veil back on, you savage thing.” Agnes de Guile stands inside the half-open gate, with Felisia right beside her, waiting for me to come. I try to crumple up Mason’s hood inconspicuously.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” says Agnes. “Do not make me late. We will speak about this later.” Agnes grabs the hood and gives me the stack of books for chapter, storming ahead in disgust. Felisia smiles at me over her shoulder.
By the dormitory entrance is a large bowl of water steeped with the night’s flowers and dew. The nuns cup handfuls and splash their faces with the flower water to keep cool. The sisters dare to laugh and chat in the greening cloister, but I can’t shake the melancholy I feel, waking up alone outside the wall, without Mason. He never meant to stay, did he? Never meant to take me with him when the chapel job is over, after all.
Am I a fool?
As soon as I get to my cell, I crawl onto the bed and grip the blanket, gathering it around me and pressing it to my eyes. Facing the wall, I let the tears come, my heaving sobs dropping into the dry, empty well at the center of my belly.
Who was I to think I could have it both ways?
— 18 —
I long to throw myself into work at the scriptorium, back into the cool of the stone tower, and forget about Mason’s noncommitment. But last night’s bonfires mean today’s cleanup, and we all trudge out to the hayfield to rake up the burnt stubble and get the soil ready for the winter rye.
From the corner of my eye, I can see someone marching quickly and decisively toward me. Alice shoots me an alarmed look.
“It’s the Anti-Pri,” she mutters.
We bend over the straw, hoping she’ll pass us by. Agnes instead strides right up to me, making me flinch.
“Edyth, I want to talk to you,” she barks, loud enough that her words will be heard.
“Yes, Sub-Prioress?” I stand to face her.
“It’s come to this so soon, has it? You could not wait to undermine me?”
My skin tenses. “Excuse me, but…what did I do?”
Agnes’s jaw clenches as she glares at me. She lowers her voice: “Did my eyes deceive me this morning by the field gate? You were with that boy.”
“I was alone when you woke me, Sub-Prioress. I’m sorry I missed the office.”
“Are you questioning my judgment? Haven’t I been your teacher, your shepherd? As the Rule says, Id est indisciplinatos et inquietos debet durius arguere. ‘He must sternly rebuke the undisciplined and restless.’ I must order penance.”
Bridgit pipes up, without lifting her eyes from her work. “Isn’t it the prioress’s job, actually, to exercise discipline? Like it says in the Rule and all.”
I admire Bridgit’s audacity. Agnes’s eyes water and the fat of her neck quivers. I search the sub-prioress’s face.
“That may be. But Prioress Margaret has gone away again, to see the archbishop. Until she returns, I will give you mercy and not what you really deserve. I am removing you from the scriptorium, Edyth. From now on you will…fetch things.”
“You can’t do that!” Bridgit protests.
“Can’t I? I am in charge while Prioress Margaret is away.”
“You’re punishing me by taking my apprentice!” Suddenly I can see years of history in Bridgit’s scowl. Agnes’s departure from the scriptorium must not have been smooth.
“Be careful, Bridgit. Remember that you are a conversa, like Edyth.” That makes Bridgit hold her tongue.
I feel like I’m being sliced open. So that’s it, then?
Fetch.
Things.
What things? From whom?
I stare at Agnes, not knowing what to say, my mouth open slightly under my overbite. She glares at me. “Is there an issue with your assignment?” she asks coolly, as though Fetcher of Things is a normal job description.
“I’m sorry, Sub-Prioress, I’m just not sure what you mean by—”
“What is the sixth step of humility, Edyth?” Agnes puts a hand on my cheek, like Mam used to do when I was little.
I search my memory. “To be content with the lowest position and most menial treatment. But—”
“Remember that.” Agnes turns toward the gate. “You are to take one week of silence. And should you break it…” She takes a breath. “Alice Palmer, would you please help your friend learn the value of silence? Thank you, Edyth. That is all.”
I stand in the burnt field, holding the rake and staring. My new apprenticeship, such as it is, will be to clean up after everyone else.
* * *
—
So that is that. I can’t speak, and because I can’t use words, all I have is anger, rising like bubbling, popping bread dough. My head is full of cobwebs and bursting pockets of sour air. I want to hit something, punch it hard.
These colors of rage are the worst, like the orange flames of Da’s hanging, like waves along a clothesline. Most of the time, the vibrations are integrated, like the Sound—the washy blue of grass under my bare feet; the angular ochres when gravel crunches under my shoes. It’s been like that from before I learned to speak. At home, they were a bit duller. Safer. But without speech, all I can do is feel.
Agnes has even forbidden singing the office during this silent punishment. Everything seems out of harmony. During nones, I look around the church, searching for something new to fixate on, something to distract me.
And suddenly there it is, in a panel of stained glass in the upper gallery.
I’ve seen this picture before.
After Da and Mam died, I barely slept. I had nightmares for months. But then I started having an old dream again from my childhood. It replaced the terrors, and now I have it all the time. I’ve become so used to it, I’ve barely given it any thought until now.