Chapter 41
41
F OUR WEEKS FOLLOWING MY ATTACK , I return to my daily routine. Mornings bring prayer, breakfast, crisp dew on blades of grass. Then chores: weeding the gardens, scrubbing pots, fixing the carts, chopping vegetables for the midday meal. When the tenebrous air cools with approaching dusk, I retreat to the forge for a moment of stolen peace among the clutter of tools and half-baked metal. Another fortnight, and I can return to smithing. Physician’s orders.
Late evenings bring fractured sleep in my thin, narrow cot. I dream of an emerald gown, a set of hands bracing my waist. Sometimes, I light a lamp and hang it in my window, though I do not know why.
Waking or dreaming, I feel neither peace nor clarity. Thornbrook has dulled, and steeps in a perpetual, lackluster gloom. My memories have not returned. When I address Mother Mabel about my concerns, she merely says, “Give it time, Brielle. You’re still recovering.”
One morning, when the bell tolls for breakfast, I trail my peers in their rush through the corridors, eager as puppies at play. As I turn into the cloister, the hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and against my better judgment, I slow. It is not the first time I have sensed another’s presence beyond my line of sight.
No, the first instance occurred two days following my release from the infirmary. On my walk to the forge, something shifted in the corner of my eye. I turned, and watched a figure leap over the stone wall. Later that evening, I wondered if I had imagined it.
Three days passed before I again spotted movement: long, streamlined legs and threads of curling brown hair. No one seems to have noticed anything unusual, so I’ve told not a soul of my suspicion. I fear the madness will deepen.
I’m the last to arrive at breakfast. Harper sits separately from Isobel, I notice. This is the third week she has eaten alone. Without Isobel to warm her side, no one will bear her company. At least my solitude is chosen.
Breakfast ends as quickly as it began. According to the schedule, I’m harvesting vegetables this morning. I look forward to spending time outdoors, reacquainting myself with the earth. The day is warm and sunlit, with puffy white clouds strung across the blue sky, the air plucking lightly at my cotton dress.
Unfortunately, I’m paired with Harper for the day’s work. She observes me from her perch on a slatted bench beneath one of the maple trees shading the enclosed herbarium. It’s strange to see her seated as opposed to standing, feet planted decisively, aggressively. To watch her eyes catch mine before flitting away.
Normally, my unease stirs in Harper’s presence, but now my heart thumps with the placid rhythm of the undisturbed. Perhaps that is why I decide to acknowledge her. “Good morning.” I still question her presence in the infirmary when I woke. She was my only visitor during my recovery.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
After gathering a basket, spade, and gloves, I crouch at one of the larger vegetable beds and begin yanking carrots free by their scraggly green tops, tossing them into my basket. For whatever reason, I have abandoned my gloves of late. The need to pull them on is strangely absent. Admittedly, I’ve enjoyed the varied textures against my skin. I delight in each one.
I finish one row, begin another. Harper’s attention feels hotter than the sun on my back. Still, I focus on my task. If she wants to speak with me, she’ll need to take that step herself.
Soil darkens my nails and sprinkles the tops of my thighs. With the first bed complete, I move on to the next. Maybe I do not remember much, but I remember this: the give of the earth beneath my fingers, the wrench of roots being pulled free.
“How are you recovering?”
I startle, dropping a fistful of carrots. Harper harvests a neighboring bed, hair restrained in a braid, sweat dotting her face. For once, she appears unconcerned by her rumpled state.
I gather the carrots I dropped. “Some lingering pain, but otherwise, I am well.” They fall into my basket with a solid thump.
“Did Mother Mabel inform you that the bear was killed?”
“She did.”
Harper shares in my relief, nodding far too enthusiastically for comfort. “I’m glad no one else got hurt.”
It was no bear, I nearly say, but what if I am wrong? Now that my wound has healed, I wonder: was it from a sword, as I believe, or has my perception altered as Mother Mabel claimed it would? I am no nearer to answers than I was weeks ago.
I assume that will be the extent of our conversation, but Harper surprises me by adding, “If you’re feeling tired, I can finish the harvest. It’s not an issue.”
I do not trust her intentions. A mouse does not willingly venture into the nest of a snake. “Why do you pretend to care for me?” I ask, unable to contain my frustration.
“It is no lie. I swear it.”
I stare at Harper. First the infirmary, and now this. “So you claim. You have always treated me with contempt.”
“I know.” At least she has the decency to appear remorseful.
“Then why?”
“According to the Text—”
“Oh, please.” Now she mocks me. “As if you care about that.” I return to ripping up carrots, soil flying.
Harper falls quiet.
When my basket overflows with vegetables, I grab another from the shed. Harper kneels in place, staring at her gloved hands, her small frame swallowed by her gray dress. If I’m not mistaken, she has recently lost weight. I sigh, toss another carrot onto my pile, and demand, “Have I offended you?”
She frowns, brushes the dark soil from her palms. “I guess I never realized how small I made others feel.”
Does she expect an apology? “Guilt is a terrible thing.” I regard her with limited patience.
A dull flush colors her sweaty cheeks as she drops her attention to the ground. “I’ve had to face”—deep breath—“uncomfortable truths about myself. Namely, that my behavior has been harmful to the abbey, our peers.”
“You don’t say.”
Her mouth parts, then clamps shut. “I don’t remember you being this spirited,” she says, blue eyes narrowed.
I shrug. I wasted so much of my life obsessing over Harper’s opinion of me, but her insults have lost their sting. I’d like to think I’ve evolved.
There does, however, remain one mystery I’d like settled. “Why aren’t you and Isobel friends anymore?” They had been attached at the hip since I arrived at Thornbrook. It is a difficult thing, navigating the world friendless.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I think we became different people.” Her brow furrows. “I’ve asked Isobel what happened between us. She said I had changed.”
I don’t recall this change. Perhaps it dwells in the hole of my mind. “Do you think you’ve changed?” There is, undeniably, a softness to Harper that was not previously present, a new and welcome vulnerability.
She drops her spade into the bucket with a clatter. “It is hard to see change from within, is it not?”
Wise words from a woman I believed possessed not even a shred of self-awareness.
She taps a finger against her leg with obvious hesitation, then: “Has your memory returned?”
“No.” Daily, I scour my mind for any flicker of recognition, an anchor I might use to ground myself. But—nothing.
Harper nods, as if that was to be expected. But something in her expression snags my attention and refuses to let go.
Dropping her voice so it will not carry over the moss-eaten walls, Harper says, “The truth is, I have blank spots in my memory, too.”
Carefully, I set my basket aside. I glance around the herbarium, but we are alone in the walled garden with its neat rows of vegetable beds. “You’re certain?” I’ve told no one my suspicion about the sword wound. I don’t want that getting back to Mother Mabel.
“Yes.”
“Did you participate in the tithe?” That would explain it—those who participate have their memories of the experience wiped.
“I think so?” Harper abandons her post to kneel at my side. She holds out her hand, pointing to the scar across her palm, evidence of her contribution. “The problem is, I remember nothing of the tithe, nor of the months preceding it. I don’t even remember when I became an acolyte.” She gestures to her cincture, twisted into its trio of knots. “Wouldn’t I remember my ceremony, or at the very least, whatever task I was given to prove myself worthy of the station?”
She makes a good point. “What else have you forgotten?”
“My friendship with Isobel.” As she speaks, she begins to snap matured broccoli crowns from their stalks. “Looking back, I can’t remember any specific moment when we fought. It seems like one day I woke up and decided she wasn’t someone whose company I cared for anymore. I mean, we’ve been friends for years. Why would I suddenly change my mind without cause?”
Another valid point.
“But mostly, it’s how I feel in here.” Harper presses a hand to her heart. “I look at Thornbrook, and I feel changed. Do you understand?”
I understand more than anyone. And since she has admitted her apprehensions, I feel comfortable sharing my own experience. “I think someone’s watching me.”
Harper goes still, a head of broccoli clamped in one fist. “Really? Who?”
At least she isn’t claiming I’ve slipped into insanity, though that’s a definite concern I have for myself. “I don’t know. I believe it’s a man.” The breadth of the shoulders, the height and narrow hips. “I can’t make out his features. He’s never close enough.”
“You’ve seen him inside the abbey?”
“Twice on my walk to the forge.” Then this morning, on my way to breakfast, though I’d only sensed his presence.
A man watches me. What does he want? I haven’t informed Mother Mabel of my concerns. My trust in her is no longer absolute.
Harper appears deeply disturbed, for men are forbidden to enter the grounds. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I feel stuck. Stagnant. I am not sure of my path forward.
She frowns, then says, “I will pray for your memories to return—and my own.”
It is not her prayers I need, only that elusive truth. But I nod, and gather up my basket, and harvest carrots until the noon bell tolls.