“Mother! Prioress Margaret!” I rush over to her and want to cry for help, but something tells me to be as covert as possible. “I’ll get Joan.”
Making sure no one sees me leave, I quietly close the study door and feign nonchalance on my way to the infirmary. I tell Joan about the prioress and take the stack of Brother Timothy’s folios.
Up in the scriptorium, I carefully collate the pages into alphabetical order. I can tell that something’s out of place, but I need to look closer. I begin again, shuffling the pages and listing each herb.
Hart’s tongue, I write. Lavender. Licorice. Madder. Mandrake. Mugwort. Myrrh.
Wait—there, between Mandrake and Mugwort—the missing entry is something under M.
* * *
—
Dragon won’t leave the church; she sits there, endlessly moaning her “prophecies.” Agnes has made her a pallet under the watchful gaze of Our Lady. Alice and I stay behind after vespers, duck into the shadows in a side chapel and watch, too. Agnes brings Felisia a small meal, and they whisper together, almost too softly for us to hear, except for a few unmistakable words that fill us with horror.
We have no choice but to wait there until compline with this secret mission churning our guts. We control our breathing, let tears stream without sobbing, turn our desire to scream into silent, pleading prayers.
The bell tolls, and Dragon breaks into loud prayers as the nuns file in. Agnes wipes away the nun’s tears and sits by her at the end of the choir stall. Alice and I are going to have to sneak into our places. She goes first, a step at a time, then stops dead. From the dark, I see Agnes staring at Alice, red rage rising in her face.
It’s safer if I don’t go into the nave at all. I pad through the rear of the apse to the church’s back door, and once I’m out, I run as fast as I can to the stonemasons’ shed. Mason and I lock eyes. I don’t need to say anything. He takes my hand, and we sprint to the chapel.
“What happened?” he pants.
“I think Agnes is onto us. Well, I don’t think she saw me, but she spotted Alice coming out of our hiding spot. I’m positive that Agnes knows Alice was spying on her and Dragon.”
“Are you sure she didn’t see you?”
“Pretty sure. And, Mason, we know they’re conspiring about something.”
At that moment, we hear the gravel crunch outside. Mason and I look at the door with horror—we forgot to put the bar across.
“Behind that stone,” he commands. “Hide. Whoever it is, I’ll take care of it.”
I huddle behind a half-carved capital up on the chancel and try not to breathe. The door creaks open, and I hear the familiar heavy footfall of the sub-prioress.
“Stonemason,” she says. “I saw torchlight in here. I’m glad I found you.”
“Good evening, Sub-Prioress,” he greets her. Only I can detect a slight waver in his voice. “How can I help?”
“I will need a quantity of stone delivered to the church tonight. I have a project.”
“How much do you need? What sizes?”
“Oh, ones that I can lift myself, though I’m stronger than you might suppose. And enough for an area as tall as you are, and again as wide—about one and a half times that. Bring it in the back door and leave it by the side chapel of Saint Christopher.”
“Happy to,” says Mason. “What is this for, again?”
“An…object lesson.”
I hear her start to leave, and raise my head a little. That’s when my foot slips out from under me. Agnes turns, but I see Mason shuffle his feet, trying to mimic the sound. She doesn’t seem to see me.
“Quick as you can, stonemason,” she says, and goes out into the night.
“We didn’t bar the door!” I whisper, emerging from my hiding place, fear clouding my sight.
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
“I guess she didn’t see me. I’m going to my cell—I can’t risk her finding me in here.” I kiss him quickly and duck out the door.
Just as I step out, a hand grabs my arm so hard, I see a flash of purple light in the night’s dark. Agnes twists it behind my back and pushes me down the path to the barn where she first whipped me, spitting in my ear the whole way.
“You simply couldn’t obey, could you?” she seethes. “I tried to help you fit here, but you insist on sneaking around with that boy. Have you learned nothing from me?”
“I never asked to fit here,” I reply, trying to yank away from her, but God, she is strong.
“That’s because you come from poor stock, and your family did not impress the proper things upon you. But that could be forgiven. You were simply—how do I say this?—poorly formed.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I grimace as she shoves me against the wall, still wrenching my arm. The goats in the barn wake up and start pacing in their pens, bleating like crying children. “I’m nobody to you.”
“Why would you question me?” Agnes’s calm voice doesn’t rise a fraction, even as the flail comes down on me and sends me to my knees. She sighs, almost as though she’s bored by having to do this again.
It’s crazy, what you can be grateful for when you’re being whipped in the dark. For one thing, I’m thankful she let me keep my dress on this time. And for another, it’s getting late, and she seems to be running out of energy for the task.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she stops.
“It’s not real, you know,” says Agnes. “That whole tree picture. It’s a fantasy, made up by a dreamer a long time ago. It’s meant to distract you from what matters.”
Still bent over by the blows, I lift my head in disbelief. “But the comet—you saw it, too. And the carving on your desk.”
“It was a dead end. People…people died anyway.”
“But maybe they didn’t have to.”
The sub-prioress is silent. The animals calm in their pens.
“Can’t you just stop?” she finally pleads. “Can’t you simply follow the way we do things here? Don’t see the stonemason. Don’t indulge useless visions. It’s simple enough.”
“I have to find the truth.”
“Haven’t I been good to you?” she says earnestly, helping me to my feet. “I gave you a privilege, serving in the scriptorium. Girls like you aren’t usually allowed to touch books.”