Chapter 18 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
My fingers ache with bone-deep exhaustion as I scrub the floor, the dim light from the wall sconces casting long shadows across the room.
The acrid scent of Reverend Mother's cleaning solution stings my nostrils, mingling with the musty odor of aged wood and abandonment that permeates this forgotten corner of the convent.
I'm three floors up in the northeast corner, at a place where even the nuns don't normally venture.
Maybe they would have when the convent was full of practicing sisters, but it's too empty now.
This area has been abandoned, and I feel like an intruder to a time long gone, but I don't mind it.
At least I'm far away from Reverend Mother.
Bare wooden desks and half-broken chairs sit discarded to one side of the large round room. Bibles, nearly a century old, lay in a pile next to a heavy typewriter on a secretary's desk, all of it covered in a thick sheet of dust. Even the spiderwebs are dirty here.
Reverend Mother says cleanliness is next to godliness, but I think she wants me too tired to try to escape.
Without Grandpapa or Isabella, though, I have nowhere to go.
Isabella had friends, but I just had her.
There wasn't any room left for anything but acquaintances in Grandpapa's world, not for me, at least. Grandpapa curated my entire life.
Dinner parties, soirées, charitable galas, everything was for his image and that of the Immorier family.
I was seen when he wanted me to be seen and kept out of the public eye at his whim.
He reduced my entire life to being his spotlight, my sole purpose to make him shine.
Still, even now, I'd do it all over again. My family is everything to me. They are all I've ever known, and I miss Isabella desperately, but I can't call Grandpapa, lest I want to endure his wrath or, even worse, sic it on my sister.
As I crawl on my sore hands and knees, sliding the metal bucket with water with me, my body protests. My fingers are raw, covered in stinging scratches and burns from the unforgiving horsehair brush and lye soap Reverend Mother insisted I use.
Still, this is nothing compared to what I know Reverend Mother is capable of, even if it takes me all day and night to make this room spotless. At this rate, it's going to take that long, too.
I stand, stretching my stiff legs and look through the row of mullion windows lining the exterior wall. Silver moonlight shines on a blanket of ocean waves, and I watch as a flash of white light skirts the perimeter of the convent, following the path of the road.
What is that?
The light disappears as the road dips and then reappears as it plateaus and settles into flat terrain.
A flatbed cargo truck comes into view, its bed covered by an arched canvas top.
It's odd, but then again, what about this place isn't? With a sigh, I return my attention to the brush and bucket of water on the floor and resume cleaning.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally finish.
My back hits the exterior wall, and I collapse against it in pure exhaustion.
I let out a shuddering sigh and drop my filthy brush into the bucket.
It vanishes beneath the murky gray water.
The hard floor beneath me is strangely comforting as I lean my head back against the wall.
The stench of the cleaning solution pollutes the air, stinging my nose, as I lick the sweat from my chapped lips. The hours of scrubbing have left my palms blistered, and I'm so tired. So very, very tired. If only I could close my eyes for just a moment …
A loud, jarring gong overhead startles me awake, and I flail blindly. I kick over the bucket of dirty water next to me, watching helplessly as it splashes onto my already stained habit.
"No, no, no," I yelp, scrambling to my unsteady feet with the grace of a newborn foal trying to find balance. I lurch towards the door, realizing with dread that it's already bright outside—I'm late!
My legs are still tangled in my dreams as I rush out of the room and down the long corridor.
I bolt down two flights of stairs to the first floor, nearly losing my balance three times as I do.
Then I run down a series of identical, twisting hallways until, finally, out of breath and soaked in sweat, I arrive outside the classroom.
A single thought shouts at me. It's an alarm I can't turn off.
Professor Thatcher is going to kill me!
I curse under my breath as muffled laughter fills the air. I push open the heavy wooden door, revealing my professor standing at the front of the classroom in front of a dozen or more nuns.
I don't even consider why sisters are also in the classroom. I'm grateful Thatcher appears too busy talking excitedly about some Latin text to notice me. I pray everyone here is too preoccupied as well as I go inside, eager to get to my seat and hide beneath it for the rest of the day.
To my dismay, however, Professor Thatcher stops speaking when I'm half a dozen steps inside the room. A breath later, the hair on the back of my neck rises as he sets his sights on me.
"You're late, Immorier," he calls, his voice cold enough to freeze the surface of the sun.
My cheeks flush hot as I turn to address him.
He assesses me slowly, his dark eyes raking over my stained habit, crooked veil, and sweaty face.
He takes his time, and the chatter in the room ceases.
I feel every pair of eyes on me. I want to find the nearest hole, crawl into it, and tunnel until I incinerate myself in the Earth's molten core.
I apologize, the words thick as glue. His eyes widen a fraction, and he goes so still it makes my skin prickle before he locks down whatever he's thinking and turns into Professor Robot again.
"Get out," he tells me, his words almost soft.
My heart sinks, and it feels like I'm suffocating. Now, Reverend Mother is going to kill me, too.
"W … what?" I stammer.
"I don't tolerate tardiness, Immorier, so get out." His words are a death sentence, extinguishing my every hope.
"But …" I protest pathetically.
"Get out," he commands before he strides over, grabs me by my shoulders, and marches me backward until I stumble into the hall.
Before I can even blink, his hands are off me—like he can't stand to touch me a moment longer than he has to. Then he slams the door and locks it with a click that seals my fate.
The realization carves a serrated knife through my heart. This classroom—his classroom—was my one small refuge in this place—and now, that's gone. My throat constricts as bitter tears threaten to spill from my burning eyes.
What happens when Reverend Mother finds out? There are no excuses in her world, just sins, and I cannot go to that place in the basement again. I fucking can't!
I'm going to be sick.
I'm going to pass out.
I need to … run!
Heart pounding, I flee down the hallway and outside toward the chapel.
Tears leak from my eyes as I sprint up the chapel's cracked stone steps and wrench open one of the heavy doors.
My gaze is immediately drawn to the altar at the front of the room, bathed in the soft flickering light from dozens of votive candles on ornate candelabras.
I don't make it to the altar, though. Instead, midway down the aisle, I collapse limply onto a pew.
I'm going to be sick.
Or cry.
Or, hopefully, cease to be before Reverend Mother finds me.
I can't be taken to the baptismal chamber again. I thought I was going to die. I couldn't breathe!
I'm on the verge of hyperventilating, trying not to completely lose it, when a kind voice pierces my misery.
"Avalynne?" Father Ezra says to me. "What are you doing here? Are you all right?"
I look up through tears to see him standing at the end of the pew, worry stitching his brows.
He reaches out to steady me as I stand.
"I shouldn't be here," I manage, my voice a raw whisper.
"Stay," he insists, his eyes too kind for this place. "Please. What happened?"
"I was late," I croak, "and Reverend Mother is going to kill me. I was up all night cleaning, just like she wanted, but Professor Thatcher didn't understand. He kicked me out of class." The words spill from my lips in a torrent, and I'd be embarrassed if I wasn't so relieved to get them out of me.
Father Ezra takes a seat beside me on the pew and puts an arm around me, tucking my head beneath his chin as I sob even harder.
"Shh," he says as I grip his shirt, my fingers cinching tight and letting everything out.
He squeezes me tighter, pressing me against the wall of his chest. He smells like the incense they burn during services. His solid warmth is strangely comforting, and I nestle closer.
"It'll be all right," he murmurs. "I won't let anything happen to you."
I don't miss it.
He didn't say God wouldn't let anything happen to me.
He said he wouldn't let it happen.
I need more than empty words, though. As my tears wet his black dress shirt, I press away from him, my gaze dropping to his white collar.
"How will you stop her?" I ask him.
"Leave that up to me," he says, lifting his hand to slowly wipe a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb. His touch is calloused yet soft, and he stares at me as he does it, his lips falling open.
His touch sends fireworks popping across my flesh, but I crave the heat. I want to stay here and let him burn all my fears away. His gaze lifts to mine, and I can see everything in the pools of honey in his eyes, including broken promises, no matter how much he wants to keep them.
"We all have someone we're forced to answer to," I tell him. "Who do you answer to, Father? God? Reverend Mother? The Pope?"
Silence stretches between us, hurt skittering across his features, before he responds. "I answer to God first but also myself. And sometimes, we can be our own harshest judge."
I swallow, eyeing his tear-stained shirt. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't mean that, and I didn't mean to …"—weep uncontrollably in your strong, muscular arms—"get your shirt dirty."
He gives me a small smile. "For the record, my shirt is fine. You are welcome to burst into my church and cry on my shoulder anytime you need. I promise I can handle it."
His kind words cut through my sniffles.
Suddenly, he stands and offers me his hand.
"Come with me," he says. "I want to show you something."
I blink up at him.
"Don't worry about Reverend Mother today or getting in trouble. I will take care of it," he promises.
I nod and, tentatively, accept his outstretched hand.
His fingers easily wrap around my own, warm and comforting around mine, and I don't have to ask him where we're going because I know wherever it is, I trust him.
He leads me outside, and together, we walk the winding, overgrown trails of the grounds, our feet sinking slightly into the damp earth.
He drops my hand as we venture farther down an overgrown path, past old trees laden with moss and thorny brambles that snag our clothes.
My fingers miss him.
It's wrong. I know I shouldn't feel for him the way I do, but I'm learning to understand I can't stop it. In a cruel place, he's the only person who has consistently shown me kindness.
With Professor Thatcher, the pull I feel to him is polar and palpable.
I am as fascinated by his brain as I am attracted to his body.
Still, he's an enigma I can't quite figure out—and a pompous ass most of the time—but Father Ezra is different.
He imprints something in me that allows me to finally breathe again.
Ocean salt saturates the air, thickening my every breath. Above us, the overcast sky filters through the canopy of trees, covering the ground with a scattered canvas of dismal gray, but I don't mind it. With Father Ezra, I always feel safe.
We follow the path deeper into the surrounding thicket until, finally, we emerge at a part of the island I have never been to before, where a short, salt-worn boundary wall borders the ridge.
I stare at the expanse of churning waves rolling against the jutting rocks, white foam spraying into the air and misting our faces with seawater.
I should be terrified. A few feet, and I'd slip into the ocean and drown. I look over at Father Ezra, his hands in his pockets and the wind tousling his hair as he squints against the sun. I feel nothing but comfort.
"See?" Father murmurs beside me, the word barely audible over the crashing waves.
My eyes drift from his face to the collar around his throat, stark white against his lightly tanned skin. He looks over, catching me staring, and holds my gaze. His lips purse subtly as he swallows before he turns slowly, almost reluctantly, to look out at the ocean once more.
"Life is bigger than your time here with us," he remarks.
"I know," I say. "It's just Reverend Mother Graves can be …"
"Horrible," he finishes for me, his voice low and rough with some inscrutable emotion. "But she is beholden to others as well, little dove. Your grandfather has very clear expectations for you."
Why does the endearment threaten to split my heart in two?
"He wouldn't …" I begin, then shake my head.
"Wouldn't he?" he interrupts, cocking an eyebrow.
I shut my mouth. I don't know what I believe anymore.
"She said I'm just like my distant aunt from long ago," I say with a swallow. "She said she was unclean and sinful, just like me."
The judgmental words leave a sour taste in my mouth.
"Reverend Mother can be old-fashioned in her beliefs," he says carefully, a flicker of distaste passing over his features. He smiles at me, and the expression is like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. "You're not crazy or sinful, Avalynne, no matter what Georgina has told you."
"Thank you," I murmur.
"Stay here as long as you need to," he offers.
"Will you stay with me?"
"Of course." He reaches for my hand and gives it a brief, tight squeeze.
I don't have the heart to ask him if we can stay here forever.
But for now, his presence is enough.
It has to be.