Chapter 30 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
The night air is cool, carrying the scent of brine and damp earth as I leave evening vespers and make my way through the cloister back to the convent. I could have followed the rest of the sisters, but I didn't. I need space—space away from every last person in this place.
In the distance, the sea rocks against the bluffs in a slow, steady rhythm. The murmur of those waves once terrified me, conjuring nightmares of drowning and death. But now, I feel nothing except mild indifference at the sound.
Is this depression?
Is it insanity?
Or something worse?
The sting of humiliation still burns fresh from this morning. Reverend Mother exposed my innermost thoughts just to humiliate me, and she got her wish, I guess.
Before I came here, I wasn't sure I could hate anyone, but God has a way of testing your limits because I think I hate her.
I can no longer look at the only person I trusted in this godforsaken place in the eye, knowing what he must think of me now.
To him, I'm just a pathetic, naive child.
It hurts.
Thatcher tried to corner me after class today. He called my name as I beelined for the door, but I kept walking. I don't need his damned pity, and I don't want his concern. I'll survive this place on my own.
Only 317 more days to go. 317 long days.
Fuck.
I can't even muster the energy to feel ashamed about the silent curse. Reverend Mother must have officially exterminated my last give-a-fuck.
I swallow against the knot in my throat and try to imagine what Isabella would do in this situation. The truth is, though, Isa wouldn't have been foolish enough to write down her silly crush.
God, I really am pathetic.
Or maybe I'm exactly what Grandpapa made me.
My entire life, my self-worth has been measured by the approval of others. I was worthy of my grandfather's love when I was good and unworthy of it when I was bad.
That's not love, though. It's subjugation.
Love isn't a currency to be traded in nickels and dimes.
You either love someone or you don't. It's all or nothing, not part and piecemeal.
For too long, I've measured my worth on the approval of others. For years, I've craved my grandfather's acceptance and bound my own value to his perception of me.
Regardless of whether I want Professor Thatcher—and physically, there's no denying that—my worth isn't measured by whether he wants me.
I am worthy not because he says so, but because I say so.
Because I exist.
I continue forward through the cloister, moonlight projecting long shadows that arch across my white flats and over the eroded cobblestone paths. The night is quiet, the silence punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves. I'm grateful for it, though, because it means I am truly alone.
As I near the fountain in the center of the courtyard, its stone basin perpetually empty, I spot something off in the shadows against a towering wall. Or, at least, I think it might be something.
I hesitate and almost turn around, but if I do that, I'd have to backtrack. I don't want to have to retrace my steps. I just want to get to my room, go to bed, and forget the last twelve hours, if only in my dreams.
So, I tell myself it's nothing and continue ahead, rounding the fountain. When I peer over again, though, I realize, to my horror, that it's not my imagination.
Reverend Mother stands with someone in the shadows.
Shit!
No, not someone—him—the man who's not supposed to exist.
The Devil of Saint Margaret's.
I freeze, though I can't help but stare.
The two of them speak in hushed whispers, Reverend Mother's attention solely on the man in front of her.
His presence is almost ethereal, like he could vanish at any moment and become the darkness itself, and a chill charges down my spine as I hear his voice—the same voice that murmured words to me in this very courtyard and blessed my belly.
Memories of his face zip through my brain.
Dark hair falling across dark brows.
Skin so pale it could be made of moonlight.
Hazel eyes that morph into an unearthly green with each lightning strike.
Father Ezra insisted he wasn't real, yet here he is, skulking in the shadows with Reverend Mother.
I should run, but it's much too late for that.
If I flee now, they will see me, and there will be no escaping the evil woman's wrath.
Gracelessly, I fall to my knees and scramble on all fours to the side of the fountain.
I slap a hand over my mouth to try to quiet my breathing, but it sounds so loud out here in the stillness of the night.
Oh God, they're going to find me.
She cannot find me.
"Patience," I hear Reverend Mother say, the word taut with frustration.
The Devil of Saint Margaret's replies, and I try to listen, but I'm too far away. I catch only fragments of their conversation.
"… too much at stake … " Reverend Mother hisses. "… we're not ready …"
"… it's time …" the man growls, the words bristling with a low-boiling rage. "… locked away, Georgina!"
"Keep your voice down, Ares!" Reverend Mother abruptly snaps, loud enough for me to hear.
"And is that such a bad thing, Mother?" he snarls. "That they finally know?!"
Mother?!
I bite my hand to stifle my squeal.
Does he mean …
No, that can't be right, because Reverend Mother took her vows at the age of eighteen. She's told the story at least half a dozen times to the nuns before morning prayer. She professed herself to God decades ago, and this man isn't old enough to be her son.
Unless …
My eyes widen, and I press my hand harder against my mouth.
Unless she had him illegitimately.
In secret.
In violation of the church and against everything she holds sacred.
Oh my God!
There's a commotion, and I hear her call after him.
"Ares!" Reverend Mother admonishes, her voice suddenly so close it's like she's breathing down my neck.
I startle, going rigid as my foot knocks a loose rock. It skitters across the path, loud in the still of the night. I press my hand to my mouth even tighter.
Please don't have heard.
Please don't have heard!
"Get out of here!" Reverend Mother rasps, and I hear a huff of annoyance in reply.
Louder, she demands, "Who's out there? Show yourself!"
I'm frozen, praying the shadows will conceal my presence, but my white habit stands out starkly against the darkness. Hurried footfalls sound as I inhale the salty tang of my sweaty palm.
Please don't see me! Please don't see me! Please, please, please!
Reverend Mother strides past the edge of the fountain, and I watch in horror as she turns, her habit skirt rustling with her. Her gaze descends to me, and her eyes burn with blistering fury.
"You wretched girl!" She grabs my arm and yanks me upright. "Spying now, are you?!"
I land with an oomph against her as her fingers bite into my forearm.
She leans in close, and the moonlight gleams across her teeth with her words. "As Proverbs tells us, child, the eyes of the Lord are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good. Mr. Thatcher will not save you now, Ms. Immorier."
Fear and anger ignite in twin flames inside of me.
I hate her.
I hate this place.
Most of all, I hate that I've been withered down into this cowering, pathetic thing I don't recognize.
I am the granddaughter of the most powerful man I have ever known.
I lost my parents and my entire life at six years old, both victim to a single-vehicle collision off the southeastern bluffs of Rhode Island.
And I watched over my sister every day since, protecting her when no one else would.
Fuck Reverend Mother, and fuck this place!
I spit at her, the droplets splattering her nose and cheeks.
"Let go of me!" I hiss, even as her grip tightens around my forearm, drilling pins and needles down to the bone. "Or I'll tell everyone about that man and that you're hiding him!"
As my saliva wets the deep lines of her face, Reverend Mother's expression goes completely blank, a frigid mask of indifference replacing her anger.
"You are seeing things, child," she tells me, "just like your aunt did long before."
She pulls me across the courtyard, and I struggle, fighting against her. I take a swing, hitting her in the chest, but she doesn't even flinch.
I finally have the upper hand. I saw her talking to the man Father Ezra said doesn't exist. I heard them.
She's a liar and a hypocrite!
"Help me restrain Apostate Immorier," she shouts to two nuns exiting the chapel.
"She's a liar!" I scream at them, my voice splintering on the last word. "I saw her talking to the Devil of Saint Margaret's! He's real! He's real! And she lied to you!"
The nuns exchange glances with each other and hesitate before Reverend Mother's shrill caw pierces the night. "Now, Sisters! Hurry!"
"Yes, Reverend Mother," one murmurs, hurriedly starting ahead again.
"Of course, Reverend Mother," another blurts, rushing forward.
They swiftly close in on me, each grabbing hold of one of my arms. Their hands land like iron shackles, and I struggle, trying to break free, but they maintain their grip.
"Take her to the altar!" Reverend Mother orders, but as they pull me to the church, she calls, "No! To the altar in the undercroft!"
"I saw him!" My head turns over my shoulder so that my words yell at one of the sisters. The nun winces as I shout but doesn't retreat. "Why are you hiding him, Reverend Mother?! Why are you lying to them?!"
Someone shoves a wad of coarse linen between my teeth and ties it in a tight gag behind my head. The fabric chafes my cheeks and flattens my ears beneath my hair. I try to scream, but I can't. The gag absorbs my spit and dries my mouth to cotton.
My hands are bound, the fabric digging into my wrists. I struggle, but the nuns press forward, dragging me inside the convent and through a dim corridor.
Reverend Mother follows.