Chapter 14 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
As I walk down the darkness-dappled hallway, leaving the nuns to finish their breakfast, the soft tap of Sister Agnes's footfalls mingles with mine.
The sun has yet to rise, and the early morning chill still clings to the air, making me shiver beneath my thick apostate's uniform.
The stones of the pathway beneath my feet are smooth yet uneven, and I nearly trip.
It's as though roots knot and tangle beneath the stones, reminding me of caskets brought to the surface during floodwaters.
As we walk, cold seeps up from the ground through the thin soles of my shoes like icy fingers rising to grip my ankles.
I adjust the hem of my skirt, trying to warm myself, but it's futile.
We take a shortcut through the courtyard and pass the chapel, and the heavy scent of burning incense mixes with the brackish air, invading my nostrils and making my thoughts drift to Father Ezra.
It's been two weeks since I've seen him, and I miss his company. Where Professor Thatcher is ambivalent to the extent of near apathy, Father Ezra is the opposite. He's warm, kind, and quick to offer a reassuring smile. He makes me feel safe among strangers in a place where I rarely feel secure.
Thinking of him, my fingers slide to a silver cross he tucked inside my pocket weeks ago, and I run my thumb along the smooth, cool metal, but it brings little comfort to me now.
Where is he? And why did he disappear, especially after he told me no harm would come to me?
Sister Agnes and I continue through the courtyard, past desiccated rose bushes and a dried-out stone fountain.
The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves, mingling with the faint, sweet aroma of the dying roses.
Two sisters walk in the opposite direction, huddled together, and I catch a snippet of their conversation as they pass us.
Sister Agnes says nothing as we walk by them, as though we are aboard two ships passing in the water. I can't help but look, though. They are so unlike the other nuns here, at least at this moment. They aren't stoic or composed, and they speak in barely more than whispers.
"He scares me," one of them hisses, her words rushed and high-pitched. Her big eyes, wide and glossy, dart to her companion's. She looks like a cornered animal locked beneath the beam of a flashlight.
The other sister with her frowns, her lower lip jutting out with the expression. "He's not real, Sister! The Devil of Saint Margaret's is just a story."
Her hands defy her words, her fingers knotting together in front of her waist.
The fear in their voices sends a shiver down my spine. The air around us feels colder, and the shadows seem to deepen, pressing in on us. I want to hear more, but Sister Agnes's stern voice shoots through the morning air and finds its target.
"Watch your tongues, Sisters! Gossip is the devil's work. Remember your proverbs. A perverse person stirs up conflict, and a gossip separates close friends."
Sister Agnes doesn't stop walking, though. Instead, she immediately returns to look straight ahead as though she's already forgotten she interrupted them at all.
"Yes, Sister Agnes," one of the nuns murmurs, bowing her head.
"Of course, Sister Agnes," the other agrees, doing the same.
The girls fall silent, their freckleless faces flushing with embarrassment as Sister Agnes and I continue ahead. I want to know more, but the ghosts of past punishments hold my tongue.
Who are they whispering about? And what devil haunts this place?
We enter the convent beneath a covered walkway, ivy weeping in heavy cords down either side. The air is cooler here, and I can feel the dampness sticking to my skin, the smell of earth and old stone filling my nostrils. I don't recognize this part of the building.
We pass ancient tapestries, their colors faded by time that depict biblical scenes in dark, muted hues.
Each one has been carefully woven to tell stories of suffering and subsequent redemption.
The story of Job. The resurrection of Christ. Daniel in the Lion's Den.
And many more hang from the walls. Occasional nuns in black habits flit by like shadows, their faces hidden by the dim light, as we continue deeper into the belly of the convent until, finally, we arrive at my classroom.
Sister Agnes turns to me.
"Tend to your studies, Ms. Immorier," she instructs, opening the door for me.
I walk past her and enter the classroom, passing Professor Thatcher, who, as usual, sits at the massive desk at the front of the room.
Today, he doesn't acknowledge my presence.
Instead, he's focused on something he's reading.
A steaming cup of coffee sits on the desk in front of him, the rich aroma mingling with the musty scent of chalk dust.
The room is cold and drafty, and the thin light from the high, narrow windows does little to dispel the chill.
It seeps past my uniform and makes my muscles ache.
Slowly, I make my way to my desk and take a seat.
I steal a glance at Professor Thatcher, but he doesn't even seem to have realized I have arrived.
He's an enigma to me. His tall, lean frame is always impeccably dressed, and today, his dark hair is slicked back with precision, framing his handsome yet harsh face.
His eyes, black as night, hold a perpetual glint of disdain as if he finds the entire world beneath him.
Yet, despite his frigid demeanor, there's something undeniably magnetic about him.
The soft swish of fabric sweeping the floor, and the creak of old hinges announce Reverend Mother's entrance. Her sharp gaze assesses the room, and I feel her scrutiny from the crown of my head to the tips of my cold toes. Her face is a mask of control.
"How is our ward behaving, Professor?" she asks. "And what is the update on her progress?"
I keep my eyes locked on the book in front of me, the bruises of her punishments still fading from my skin.
Professor Thatcher doesn't even look at me before his gaze snaps to Reverend Mother, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say that he hates her. Violence roils in his glare, and he shows her no deference, keeping his feet propped up on the desk.
"She should be at a college, not a convent," he replies brusquely. "Inform Mr. Immorier to call me directly with questions regarding her studies."
Reverend Mother clasps her hands in front of the thick robe knotted around her waist.
"I will relay that our ward is adjusting well," she says, pursing her thin lips. "And that we are doing everything we can to ensure she does not fall behind her peers during her stay at Saint Margaret's."
When he doesn't respond, Reverend Mother adds, "Everything we do is for the well-being of the children, after all." She turns to leave but stops at the door, spinning around to face him. "As we have upheld since 1862, Solus Deus Mortem Vincere Potest, Mr. Thatcher."
If looks could kill, she'd already be six feet under and rotting.
"Deus quoque tandem morietur, Ms. Graves," he finally replies, tipping his chin at her.
A long moment passes between them, before Reverend Mother exits the room, leaving a palpable tension behind. I shouldn't ask, but curiosity gets the best of me.
"What did you say to her?" I figure there are half odds he'll ignore my question.
Professor Thatcher peers over at me as if he just remembered I exist.
"Reverend Mother Graves said, ‘God alone can conquer death,' and I told her ‘God will eventually die too,'" he tells me before returning to his book.
Not even looking at me again, he adds, "Start with chapters one through four in the collegiate algebra textbook today, and then move on to world geography, going through to chapter six. "
Apparently, he's not going to just let me sit and read literary classics, but in a small act of defiance, I start with a subject he didn't assign: history. Hours pass, and after a break for lunch, I move on to geography and then finally to my least favorite subject: math.
From the first page, the equations stump me, but I work through them, figuring them out as best I can until finally, in chapter four, I encounter a particularly challenging problem.
The question involves finding the roots of a complex polynomial, and I stare at the beginning of the equation for a solid five minutes.
x^4 - 3x^3 … followed by a bunch of gibberish.
By the time I finish staring at the equation, my brain feels like it's been through a blender, and now I understand why Thatcher said to start with math work first.
This is terrible.
Hesitantly, I call on him for help.
"I'm having trouble with a math question," I say. "Will you help me?"
He doesn't even look up from his desk, and if words could actually drip with boredom, he'd be salivating like Pavlov's poor dog. "Didn't I tell you to start the day with the math assignment, Ms. Immorier?"
"Yes," I begin, "but …"
He's still not looking at me, but I'm sure he just rolled his eyes.
"Did you learn your lesson?" he quips, the words dry.
"Yes," I answer.
"Doubtful," he mutters before pinning me with an unyielding stare that harpoons me to my seat.
It makes me ache.
"Go on then." He raises a dark eyebrow. "Tell me your math problem."
I read it aloud from the book, and he takes a moment, all the while continuing to blink at me. Seven long heartbeats pulsing in my ears later, he answers my question.
"You need to use the Rational Root Theorem to test potential rational roots and then factor the polynomial," he replies.
I look down at the equation and think it through.
Dammit. He's right.
Abruptly, Professor Thatcher stands and crosses the distance to my desk. His movements are deliberate, almost predatory, as he steps closer, and I can't help but stare. Unceremoniously, he shuts my math book, sending a gust of wind straight into my face with the force.
"Surely you can think of something more interesting to ask me than a math problem." He easily lifts himself to sit on the desk beside mine.
He's too close, his proximity unsettling yet captivating. Notes of aged bourbon and old paper settle in the air, comforting but with a bite. My head swims in it, and I briefly wonder if he always smells this good.
"If we are to spend nearly every day together for the next year," he tells me, his voice a mesmerizing rumble, "then I'm going to need you to start asking questions that are a bit more engaging, Ms. Immorier."
I hesitate, the words caught in my dry throat. "Like what?"
He shrugs, a small, almost playful smirk playing on his lips. "Surely you can figure something out. You're a smart girl, after all, or at least that's what your grandfather tells me, so go on then. Wow me."
I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Why are you here?"
His expression hardens, a flicker of irritation sharpening his features. "That's not engaging, Ms. Immorier. In fact, it's quite boring."
A flush rises to my cheeks. "I just thought—"
"You thought wrong." His words turn cold. "Try again."
I gather my thoughts.
"Do you believe what you said to Reverend Mother?" I ask. "That God will eventually die?"
He raises an eyebrow, finally showing a hint of interest.
"Now, that's a thought-provoking question." He looks down at me like I'm a puzzle he can't quite put together. I resist the urge to fidget. "And yes, I do."
"Why do you believe that?" I ask him.
He leans back, pursing his lips as he blinks down at me. He studies me for another long moment before speaking.
"Have you ever read Nietzsche?" he questions.
I shake my head.
"Nietzsche was a philosopher who famously declared, ‘God is dead.' A thought-provoking statement, for sure, but what he actually meant was that religion was no longer the moral compass for the modern world."
"So you think humanity has outgrown God?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes," he replies, watching my reaction. "Nietzsche believed that without God, we must create our own moral compass. But that's not an easy task."
"But what about the idea of God dying?" I say.
Professor Thatcher's gaze becomes more intense as if he's looking through me rather than at me.
"If I assume God is a being rather than a belief system, there's another philosopher, Hegel, who spoke of our Creator's demise.
He saw the death of God as a part of an innate dialectical process.
For Hegel, the death of God meant acknowledging that our understanding of divinity would continue to evolve. "
I bite my lip, thinking it through. "So as our concept of God changes, it will eventually disappear entirely?"
"Precisely." A faint smile plays across his lips. "And that terrifies those who cling to traditional beliefs. The idea that God, as they understand Him, will cease to exist threatens their entire worldview."
"Isn't that bleak, though? To think that everything we believe could just … end?"
He looks at me, thoughtfully, but before he can respond, his phone rings. He glances at the screen, his expression hardening with his annoyance.
"Forgive me," he mutters. "I have to take this."
Then, abruptly, he stands and leaves the room.
Alone, I sit in silence, trying to process everything he said. I listen to the faint murmur of his voice from the hallway, the words indistinct but his tone clipped with impatience.
When he finally returns, he immediately goes back to his books, and I know that whatever moment we shared is gone. I return to my studies, and when we finish for the day, Sister Agnes appears at the door.
Professor Thatcher doesn't even look up as I leave the room.
I walk to the cathedral with Sister Agnes for evening vespers. The chapel is dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting long shadows on the walls, and the air is thick with burning sage, the smell heavy and cloying. I kneel at the pew, and as is becoming my custom, the prayers come automatically.
As I bow my head, I silently wonder if I'm praying to a God I don't even believe in anymore.