Chapter 5
Chapter five
Mirela
Pathetic and worthless.
That was exactly how Mirela felt after that encounter.
She had no idea that Claire would be anywhere near the cathedral, not at that hour and not in her chamber.
If she had known, she would’ve at least tidied up a bit more, pulled the sketches from the walls, dusted perhaps…
When she saw Claire there, looking at her drawings, she had had no idea what to say or do.
And then everything crumbled when she kept walking closer.
Of course, Claire was petrified to see her getting so close, but…
God she wanted to take in the details she wasn’t able to see from where she hid in the rafters.
Now that she’d seen her up close, Mirela’s mind could focus on nothing but details. The way her nose crinkled faintly. The faint scent of roses that clung to her clothes.
Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, shimmered under the faint candlelight. Her tanned skin glowed with a warmth Mirela had never seen among the pale, ghostlike sisters who roamed the church. And her eyes…emerald green, bright and alive…
Mirela had seen paintings of angels before, like the ones of Mary with golden haloes, saints with downcast eyes, Virgins framed in celestial light.
They were beautiful, yes, but their beauty was static, distant.
They felt cold, and Mirela always used them as practice, nothing more.
But Claire’s beauty needed to be framed; it needed to be captured like those other paintings.
No painted Virgin could compare to Claire.
Lying on her straw bed, Mirela stared at the wooden ceiling, her hand pressing to the scarred side of her face. She could still feel where Claire’s gaze had lingered. She wanted wholeheartedly to believe that her gaze was warm and unjudging.
But Mirela knew Claire was wondering what monster hid in the bell tower. Maybe she’d whispered her disgust on the way out. Mirela wouldn’t have blamed her. Who could look upon this face and not recoil?
Ferron never recoils.
Mirela frowned as the thought invaded her mind. Yes, he never recoiled. He had taken her in when no one else would. He had cared for her. Fed her. Protected her.
And yet…
“She approached you too, Mirela,” she whispered into the darkness. “She came to your chamber, accepted your gift…”
Her throat tightened.
“She wanted to talk to you. You sent her away.”
“She shouldn’t have been here,” Mirela murmured back to herself. “No one is allowed up here but me.” She swallowed hard, turning onto her side. “She was curious, that’s all. That’s the only reason she came.” She sighed squeezing her eyes. “She liked the picture. That’s why she was polite…”
But her voice shook.
Deep down, she knew it wasn’t just curiosity in Claire’s eyes but something dangerously kind. Mirela sat up sharply, frustration burning in her chest.
She didn’t want Claire to leave. She wanted to hear her voice again, see her smile, even stand close enough to feel her breath. To see those emerald eyes not from above, but inches away.
This was her chance to finally have a friend…
Mirela covered her face, a smile sneaking onto her lips.
A friend. Just maybe, she could… teach her how to draw, toll the bells, show her how Paris looks all the way up in the towers!
Or she will never want to see you again.
Mirela scoffed, her eyes traveling to the sketches in her room. She really hoped that wasn’t the case.
***
In the next three days, silence consumed the cathedral.
Mirela found herself perched near the ledge, looking down at the nave, hoping to catch the choir. The nuns never came. They’re busy, she told herself. Doing…nun-Ly things. But the stillness gnawed at her. Mirela couldn’t shake the feeling that she had something to do with it.
By the fifth day, hunger and sleeplessness had taken their toll. Her body trembled with fatigue; her stomach was hollow. When she finally succumbed to sleep, her dreams were full of phantom voices until only one remained.
Claire’s.
It was so definitive, so certain. It was her voice. But Mirela was so tired, so hungry that she couldn’t pull herself from the bed to go and see Claire once more.
She willed her body to react. Mirela awoke with a start. The heavy night air was thick in her lungs. Beside her bed sat a small basket filled with bread and fruit, and a bottle of wine. Her stomach growled as if to confirm it was real.
She sat up, dazed, and tore off a piece of bread.
It was soft, sweet, and fresh. Completely the opposite of the dry scraps Ferron usually brought.
She rummaged deeper, finding a wedge of cheese.
Her eyes widened. Cheese and wine. Ferron had never left such things for her. What had she done to deserve this?
She bit into the cheese and closed her eyes, savoring the taste. For once, she felt full. She even smiled faintly, deciding she would thank Ferron later. Perhaps he was kind for once. Whatever the reason, she was glad to be eating fresh bread, delicious cheese, and wine.
The food helped her regain her strength. She felt stronger already. Tonight, she would toll the bells louder than ever!
Looking at the basket, Mirela pulled the bottle of wine and swallowed hard. She undid the cork and took a fast swig. Quickly, she narrowed her eyes and looked at the label. It was liturgical wine…
Her stomach turned.
It felt wrong to drink it…
Looking around her, as if making sure she was alone, she took a second mouthful of it and pushed the cork back on the mouth of the bottle before putting it back in the basket.
Rising, Mirela stretched and descended from her chamber, her bare feet making no sound against the stone. When she reached the nave, she paused as something stirred in the shadows near the far pews.
It was strange to have visitors so late in the evening, but as she focused her vision, she recognized the person.
Claire.
She sat in the dim corner, her hands folded neatly, her smile soft and knowing.
“Evening,” Claire said, her voice a whisper against the silence.
Mirela’s breath caught.
Claire was here! She was back!
She stepped forward, hesitant, her gaze sweeping the hall. No one else. Just them. It would be harmless if she sat down and just talked, right?
Claire patted the seat beside her. “You can sit with me; if you wish, of course.”
Mirela stood still for a second, deciding if it was wise to do so.
Inhaling deeply, she sat not too close, but close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from the other woman’s thigh.
The silence between them was both unbearable and comforting.
It wasn’t every day she sat next to someone, or even in the presence of someone else.
Whenever Ferron came to visit, he would talk nonstop, never leaving a moment of comfortable silence.
He talked about everything and nothing, and sometimes she had to admit she would grow dizzy at how much he judged everyone else but himself.
“I hope you liked my gift,” Claire finally said.
Mirela frowned slightly. “Gift?”
“The basket,” Claire clarified, smiling and eyeing Mirela playfully.
Mirela blinked, realization dawning. “That was you?” she asked, turning completely to face her.
Claire nodded, sheepish. “I hope I wasn’t intruding.”
“You were,” Mirela admitted softly, but quickly rectified, “But I didn’t mind.”
Claire exhaled in relief. “Good. It was hard enough to borrow the wine from the convent.“ Her lips curled into a grin. “I’d say steal, but that sounds unholy.”
Mirela stared, mesmerized. The sound of Claire’s laughter echoed softly in the cathedral. By instinct, she leaned closer, close enough to catch the glint of green in her eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be with your convent?”
“Dismissing me again, Mirela?” Claire arched her brow.
“No! I mean!” Mirela sighed and rubbed her face. “It’s rather late.”
“Yes, I know, and I shouldn’t be here,” Claire murmured, lowering her gaze. “But I was worried. You hadn’t appeared for days.”
“You were gone too…” Mirela said arching a brow.
“I was, but I came yesterday and didn’t see you.”
Mirela swallowed. “I was resting. “
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, I was just hungry and tired. But I’m fine now.” Now that Claire was here, she felt better, stronger too…
She studied Claire’s face, tracing every curve and shadow as if trying to etch it into her memory. Claire’s beauty was almost painful up close. Her lips seemed soft and full, her lashes dark against her sun-warmed skin. Mirela’s chest ached.
Then she noticed Claire’s gaze linger too long on the ruined side of her face. The warmth drained from her limbs.
She pulled away.
“Claire.” Her name trembled on Mirela’s lips.
“I’m sorry for staring.” Claire whispered, moving her hand to touch the space between them, her little finger almost brushing against Mirela’s leg. Almost.
“It’s fine,” Mirela murmured, turning toward the altar. The silence pressed tight between them.
She felt Claire’s gaze on her once more, and she was trying not to feel uncomfortable. Claire seemed to notice and pulled away enough to give them both space.
“The house of God is the safest place to be, right?” Claire said, a soft chuckle escaping her.
Mirela nodded at that. “It is safe, but you don’t sound so confident in that statement.”
Claire shrugged. “I have my reasons,” she said before sighing, lifting her gaze to the tall ceiling of the cathedral, her emerald eyes catching the candlelight. “And yet I chose to come here. You chose to sit beside me. So, maybe it is not that bad.”
Mirela’s voice came barely above a whisper. “Why are you here, truly?”
“I wanted to escape the snores of the other sisters,” Claire said softly. “And you? Why speak to me now when you sent me away before?”
“Because I was scared. No one goes to the tower but me,” Mirela admitted.
“Are you the one that tolls the bells, Mirela?”
Mirela stiffened at the change of topic. “I am.”
“And you live here?”
Mirela nodded, looking now at the ground.
Claire moved closer, her thigh now pressed firmly to Mirela’s. She held in a breath, the touch so foreign and new to her. The contact didn’t feel violent or malicious. It was just...that. A touch. Gentle, tender, a connection like she had never felt before.
“Why are you hiding, though?” Claire’s voice softened.
Mirela knew she should pull away from her touch, to put some distance, but God, she had never felt this tenderness, not from Ferron, not from anyone. Her eyes were glued to the spot where their bodies touched. She swallowed hard and just slightly moved away an inch.
“Mirela?” Claire called her.
Mirela’s gaze darted back to her face; it was close to her now, and she could see all the details of her features. She inhaled once more and slightly cursed at herself for doing so. She smelled so good, of roses and slightly of lavender…
“What?” Mirela tilted her head in confusion.
“Why are you hiding in the tower?”
Mirela frowned. “Because it’s what I was told to do.”
Claire hesitated, then gently brushed her fingers along Mirela’s right arm. The touch burned. “Is it because of this?”
The world froze. Mirela flinched violently, pulling away, hiding the scarred arm behind her. It was too much, the touch, the eyes, her face so close. Too much, and Mirela had no idea what to do with any of the feelings bubbling inside her chest and lower stomach.
“You need to leave,” she whispered.
“Are you kicking me out again, Mirela—“
“Now!” As soon as the words left her mouth, Mirela dreaded the way Claire’s face twisted into pain and fear.
Claire didn’t move. She sat there with her green eyes digging into Mirela.
And Mirela couldn’t take it.
“If you won’t leave,” Mirela said, rising, “then I will. Thank you for the food.”
She quickly made it to the stairs before the darkness swallowed her whole.