Chapter 8 #2
“And you and Kingston have discovered what, exactly, in all your studies?” she asks, eyes flashing from the corkboard to me.
“Um…”
“On the board, Gwenna.” She shoves the index cards and pen into my hand. I sigh, but good-naturedly.
“Sure.”
I get up and write out as much as I can, as briefly as I can.
How the legend of the Grail didn’t actually come around until the 1100s.
How, around those same decades, there were more and more religious scholars—and more and more women—writing about a different kind of spiritual power in the world: not just the holy spirit or God’s divine will but something else.
What Hildegard called viriditas. Greening, growth. The force that enlivens everything.
When I’m done, I’m not sure I’ve made anything clearer, necessarily, but Morgan’s right: it does feel good to download it from the inside of my brain.
“Hmm.” Morgan says, tapping her nails to her lips. “Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmm.” She looks at me. “So there is no Grail,” she says. “Per se. No…cup waiting around for Indiana Jones to grab it. Right?”
“Right. It’s just a cover story, basically. This”—I grab a dangling piece of string, wrap it around the thumbtack holding the GRAIL card in place, and pull it taut all the way across to the RUSSIANS area—“is this.” I loop the string and secure it to the SPRING MAIDEN card.
Morgan gives a proud little smirk. “She’s getting the hang of it.”
I stare at the SPRING MAIDEN.
“And that person,” I say, after only a moment’s hesitation, “is the one who possesses that power. Viriditas. The thing that that the Grail legend is an allegory for, basically.”
“A-ha.” Morgan nods sharply, the cap of the pen against her lips, then peers over at me. “Is this helping?”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “Maybe.” I stare at the board and have to laugh again. “God, this is not what I thought I’d be doing in college.”
“No,” Morgan deadpans. “I’m shocked.”
I laugh. “Yeah, call me crazy, but I thought I’d mostly be studying.”
Morgan blows a raspberry. “Boring.”
“Oh, come on.” I throw a pillow at her. “What else is college even for? Because I can’t play any sports, I hate parties, and I’m not the type of girl who comes to college just to get a boyfriend—”
Cough. I look up to Morgan giving me a pointed stare.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs. “Just, here you are anyway. A fourfold success.”
My neck and chest prickle with heat. I clench my fists. “Yeah, but I’m not—”
“Hey, hey, easy.” Morgan puts up a hand to silence me, then cocks her head. “Why so defensive?”
“I’m not defensive,” I say, realizing too late that that’s exactly what a defensive person would say. “You know what I mean. That just isn’t me.”
Morgan frowns. “Sure. Except for the part where it is you. Or do I have to go break some very difficult news to my stepbrother and his friends?”
“Well…” I struggle. “Okay, in practice, yes, I guess it is me. But it’s not like I came here wanting to—”
“Okay?” Morgan interrupts. “So?”
“So that’s not who I am!”
She stares at me. “I don’t get it, Gwenna,” she says, after a moment. “Why can’t it be? Why can’t you just be whatever you’re being?”
I pin my arms between my knees, self-conscious even though I only half-understand the question. “I dunno,” I mutter. “Isn’t that kind of a big change?”
“Yeah, and?” Morgan spins her hand in the air. “That’s life, baby. Rota fortunae, everything flows, death and taxes, blah, blah, blah. Shit’s voluble. Life changes. People grow. And anyone who doesn’t appreciate that can get bent. If”—she adds sweetly—“you ask me.”
Easy for you to say, I think. I look around Morgan’s room, her wall tapestries and suncatchers, her shelves crawling with vines from potted plants, her haphazardly stacked books with candles arrayed much too close for my liking, her little vials of this and that in an array of mismatched catchall trays.
“Have you always been like this?” I ask.
“Hm?” Morgan looks up, following my gaze. “Like what?”
“Like…yourself, I guess.” I shake my head. “Collecting things and learning magic and…” And rarely tidying up after yourself, I think, but don’t say aloud. It’s not like we share a living space anymore, or like I even really minded it that much when we did.
“Oh.” She considers. “I have, I guess. I’ve certainly always been myself. By definition, right?” She gives a little laugh.
I smile, too. “No, of course. It’s more that you’re just so…unapologetic about it all.”
“Well, sure. What’s to apologize for?”
I don’t have an answer. I don’t think Morgan has any reason to apologize for being who she is—of course. She’s good at so much, talented at so much, and generally just fun to be around. She isn’t perfect—the congealing pot of lentil soup is a testament to that—but not to the point of
Me? I don’t know.
I know what I like, what I find interesting or captivating, what intrigues me and animates me. I know what I’m talented at, too, and I know there’s a lot of overlap between the two.
But I’ve never felt good about any of that, I realize. Not really.
I’ve always felt apologetic.
For some reason, I think of Christmas parties.
The ones held by my mom’s firm, big dark loud restaurants in the city, where I’d clutch a Shirley Temple and end up cornered by at least one partner or associate about college applications and career plans.
I could have lied, I guess, but I never did—didn’t feel confident in forging all the details of someone actually interested in Economics or even Political Science.
Medieval studies? What’s someone even do with that?
Well, Latin’ll be helpful on the LSATs, at least.
Quite a kid you’ve got there, Laura.
As I got older, I got better at hedging.
At justifying. Especially with lawyers. I’d argue that someone has to do it, right?
Someone has to make sure we don’t forget history.
Someone has to guard the few material treasures we have from the days when books were precious and crafted laboriously by hand.
Wouldn’t it be a shame if no one did that? Wouldn’t it?
That’s what I told people, anyway. Sometimes it convinced them; sometimes it just gave off the lady doth protest too much energy and they decided it was time to politely take their leave.
But it wasn’t ever the truth—wasn’t my truth. Because why I wanted this? I just loved it. Loved to read, loved to learn, loved languages and words and the way they could shine through centuries like a bright keyhole in the dark door to the past. Loved to think, to get lost in thought. To wonder.
“Has anyone ever told you you think too much?” Morgan interrupts.
I blink. “Constantly.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” she declares.
That surprises me. “Are they?”
“Sure. Think all you want, Gwenna.” She spirals her fingertip into my forehead like it’s a little power drill. “Just make sure they’re your thoughts. Don’t go getting all dogmatic about things.”
Her eyes flick to the corkboard again.
To another card.
WHITE brOTHERS OF ST. VINCENT (THE CONSISTORY)
“Because heavens know we have plenty of dogma,” she murmurs. Looks at me again. “What’s their take on all this, anyway?”
A slow shiver prickles down my spine. “I don’t know. It’s not like I talk to them directly. I think Kai’s been doing that.”
“Mm.” Morgan taps the pen to her lips again, eyes fixed on the card. “Well, if I were you, I’d find out.”