Chapter 6 #3
“Ruben was a resident there, at Eagle Heights,” Katherine felt herself suddenly compelled to supply.
“Were you?” Now Sister Agatha did stop, and she turned to peer at him.
“A prisoner, more like,” he said.
“Hmm.” Her eyes were penetrating, and she seemed to look right through him. “Did they have dragons there?”
“No.”
“I thought not.”
“But we also didn’t have the healing power of prayer…” he continued feebly.
“Don’t be flippant!” The nun’s voice was as sharp as a rap on the wrist, and Ruben flinched.
“Some do take comfort in faith,” she continued in a more placid tone, resuming her march down the passage.
“But everyone has different needs. And, of course, we’ve always had the dragons.
” They were passing a window now, and she waved a hand vaguely in its direction.
Her followers stopped in their tracks. Out the window, in the courtyard behind the convent, a row of slate stables stood tilted at various angles in a gentle curve around a central flagstone square.
Lounging in the stables’ unbarred entrances or sprawled in patches of sunshine on the stony ground were almost a dozen dragons.
Each a unique color and height, from dog-sized to over ten times taller, they were sleeping or grooming themselves or stoking small boilers.
The smallest, a little blue dragon with tiny blue wings, was gnawing a ball like a retriever.
When the ball popped suddenly from his paws, he eagerly pursued it, his tail a joyful blur.
A few people, dressed like Sister Agatha in robes of startling white, were with the dragons, petting them or brushing their fur or operating the water pumps as flames streamed beneath the boilers.
One of them scooped up the blue dragon’s ball and tossed it for him, and he scampered eagerly across the flagstones, nosing into corners after it.
Sister Agatha apparently found she was walking by herself and doubled back to where her visitors were staring.
“We used to have many more,” she said, gazing briefly down at Ember.
The glimmer of a smile began to cross her stern face but was quickly extinguished.
“Many have moved on, finding somewhere else to be useful.”
Yes, Ember said quietly.
“And soon, I fear many more will leave. They will not stay where they do not feel purposeful.” She paused, gazing out at the courtyard. “Terribly talented healers, dragons,” Sister Agatha continued. “Even if in simply bringing a sense of peace to those near their natural end.”
Katherine, Mrs. Chrysler, and Ruben continued to stare out the window.
The more they looked, the more they saw.
Dragons still in their summer pelage, vibrant and glistening in the sunshine, were the most obvious, but others had already transitioned to muted autumn tones.
The large peaceful creatures all seemed to ignore the romping blue one.
Some were nestled under sizeable quilts, which were still being stitched by the people sitting next to them.
“I’ve never seen so many in one place,” Katherine murmured.
“Nor I,” breathed Ruben.
“I wonder how my Harvey’s doing,” Mrs. Chrysler said with a bit of a moist sniff.
“Come along,” Sister Agatha instructed, more kindly than they had heard her voice so far. “You can meet them all later, if you’d like. Perhaps one of you even knows a few?”
Ember rubbed up against Mr. Scruffles sheepishly, cloaking her embarrassment.
“Or maybe not. Sometimes past lives aren’t meant to be relived. Come. This way.”
She led them further down the hall until it came to a junction with an alcove of sweet-smelling cedar.
The walls of the alcove were lined with drawers and sliding panels, and although there were no mirrors, Katherine got the sense that this was a fitting room of sorts.
Sister Agatha aimed straight for a large panel on the opposite side of the room and thrust it open smartly.
“I think it only worthy of Saint Percival, patron saint of the old and downtrodden, that we make you comfortable before we proceed with our discussion,” she was saying, her back to them.
Get this, she’s going to dress him up before she dresses him down, Mr. Scruffles snickered from behind Katherine’s skirts, nudging Tilly conspiratorially. Sister Agatha aimed a stern gaze in their direction on the floor.
Mrs. Chrysler, Katherine, and Ruben exchanged glances.
“That robe is an absolute eyesore,” the nun continued, rummaging in the closet she’d opened.
She soon produced a garment equally stainless and featureless and flowing as her own.
“You can’t possibly be comfortable in it.
I am sorry to say that our ministry no longer collects clothing for charity, so I have nothing contemporary to offer you. This will have to do.”
She held up what she’d gathered from the closet, and Ruben recoiled.
“But that’s a nun’s robe!”
“The Brothers of Saint Caracatus wear them as well.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“Ruben,” Katherine urged him through clenched teeth, “take what Sister Agatha is so generously offering you.”
“Yes, Ruben. Don’t embarrass us,” Mrs. Chrysler said. “Pretend you’re a monk. You’ve already got the bald spot.”
Ruben flushed, his hand flew to his head, and he acquiesced to take the robe. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly.
“You may change behind that screen,” Sister Agatha said, pointing. “We will wait.”
“Change here? In front of the ladies?” He regarded Katherine anxiously, and she averted her gaze.
“We will wait outside.” Sister Agatha handed him a pair of sandals and several other items, one of which Katherine could only hope was fresh underwear, and ushered the rest of them all out into the hallway.
Mr. Scruffles sat washing his face as they loitered in the passage. Brother Hoode, he said between licks. Heh, heh. That’s what we should call him now.
Ember laughed, despite herself.
Sister Agatha regarded the cats sternly but remained silent.
A few moments passed, and Mrs. Chrysler shuffled her feet awkwardly. Katherine shot her a meaningful look. “We were rather surprised to find you here, ma’am,” Mrs. Chrysler said conversationally. When Sister Agatha didn’t reply, she added lamely, “Glad to see you’re still in good health.”
“Indeed.”
A few more agonizing moments passed, and mercifully, Ruben materialized at the doorway.
“This is amazingly comfy,” he said. “It is a real treat, I’ll admit, to not have a constant draft blowing up my bu—but anyway…
Thank you.” He smoothed the soft, warm cloth of his new robe, which draped all the way down to his ankles, and wiggled the toes of the wool socks in his new-to-him sandals.
He’d wrapped Mrs. Chrysler’s scarf over his shoulders like a stole, and the whole getup made him look much more vigorous and robust.
“You look very nice, Ruben,” Katherine told him honestly.
“Thank you. Yes. Certainly not cold anymore.” He winked at her, like the cheeky younger version of himself that Katherine remembered. “What shall I do with my old things?” he asked Sister Agatha.
“What would you like to do with them?”
“Burn them?”
“Well, we do have dragons on site.” She turned on her heel.
Did she just make a joke? Tilly gawped. I think she just made a joke!
Didn’t catch it, Mr. Scruffles said, continuing to wash his face.
Sister Agatha gestured for Ruben to leave his old garments where they were and beckoned over her shoulder for them all to continue following her. “Feeling better?” she asked without turning around.
“Much,” Ruben answered, but then his stomach rumbled so noisily that Mr. Scruffles actually jumped.
“We will have lunch here,” Sister Agatha announced with uncanny timing, leading them into another room off of the passage.
This one was full of long tables, and light flooded the airy space from tall windows lining a far wall.
Not all of the tables had chairs at them, though.
Katherine noted that the room seemed equipped for far many more people than it currently appeared to serve.
“The other sisters and our guests have their noontide meal in half an hour.” The nun drew a bell pull that sounded a low, rich tone in the nearby kitchens.
Pleasant scents were already beginning to drift in from that direction. “But we will eat now.”
Almost immediately, a short, plump woman bustled into the room, drying her hands on the apron that draped over her own, not-so-spotless robe, and had a hushed conversation with Sister Agatha.
In a blink, she was gone, and another nun, looking rather lower in the kitchen hierarchy—less plump in stature with sleeves rolled to her elbows—soon arrived with a tray of cutlery and four servings of cold water, warm bread, and hot soup.
After she disappeared, a nun even slighter in frame arrived with a tray for the cats.
The visitors stood about the table awkwardly, until Sister Agatha bade them to sit.
“Thank you, ye gods and goddesses,” she suddenly boomed, her eyes closed tight.
Ruben jumped at the start of her oration and reached out to catch her wobbling glass before it fell over.
His own was a lost cause, and Mrs. Chrysler hastily dabbed up the spilled water with a cloth napkin.
Sister Agatha continued: “Yea, hard of hearing yet benevolent to the loud and meek alike, we thank you for this feast before us. Our thanks as well to Saint Percival, for interceding on our behalf, your lips so close to the ears of Heaven. May we grow wise even as we grow in years. Amen.” The other three at the table mumbled something approximating “amen” if you didn’t listen too closely, and the nun declared in a quieter voice, “We may begin.” She sat, draped her own napkin over her lap, and picked up her spoon.