“Want to see?”
“No!”
From within the abbey, she heard a sound like the shuffle of dry leaves—she knew from experience a starched habit made just that noise. The door swung wide. An elderly nun stood back, her gaze lowered, her hands tucked into her sleeves.
“Sister Theresa, we have a traveler cast upon our shores.” Sorcha stepped into the foyer. “Tell Mother Brigette he requests shelter until he can return to his own world.”
At the sound of Sorcha’s chattering teeth, dear Sister Theresa looked up. Her reserved demeanor fled and she crooned, “By our Lord, darlin’, did ye fall in the drink? Hurry, we need to get ye warmed and bathed before ye catch yer death.” She wrapped a dry blanket over Sorcha’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “To the infirmary wi’ ye!”
“Yes, Sister.” Sorcha was in no condition to argue. Great shudders wracked her.
Now Sister Theresa looked at Arnou. She caught her breath at his stench. Pointing to an invisible spot on the floor, in a tone of pure steel-willed command, she said, “Ye! Traveler! Stand right there until someone comes to get ye. Don’t move! Don’t touch anything! And don’t get anything dirty.”
Arnou shuffled inside.
Sister Theresa joined Sorcha and helped her down the corridor. “Keep yer chin up, dear, we’ll get ye there.”
Sorcha nodded, knowing that in the infirmary heated bags of sand would warm her feet. Sister Rebecca, the infirmary director, would dose her with honey collected from the bees in Sorcha’s own garden. Yet her footsteps dragged as she walked through the stripes of sunlight that shone through the high windows. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling she was abandoning Arnou.
“Miss!” he called in his rough voice.
She turned back to face him, ridiculously relieved at the chance to check on him once more. “Yes?”
He stood in the foyer where Sister Theresa had told him to stand, his neck craned, watching her with such desolation it seemed as if she walked away with his salvation in her hands. “I never asked your name.”
“Sorcha.” As she stared through the alternating light and shadow, something about him seemed familiar. The way he stood, his legs apart as if he laid claim to the very earth, his fist carelessly clenched at his hip. The way he held his head, his chin held at an arrogant tilt. And that eye... his unblinking, wide, and mesmerizing eye... it seemed as if in a long-ago dream Sorcha had seen his eyes, both his eyes, staring at her while the hand of Death reached out... .
Sister Theresa squeezed Sorcha’s arm.
Torn from her contemplation, Sorcha jumped.
“Dear,” Sister Theresa said, “ye’re going to catch yer death of cold if ye don’t hie yerself to the infirmary.”
When Sorcha again looked at Arnou, he grinned and bobbed his head. Again he was a simple, foolish fisherman.
Yet on her chest, the silver cross burned.
Chapter 2
T he next morning, Sorcha stood with her hoe in her hand and watched Arnou as he hefted blocks onto the partly built low rock wall around the herb garden. His strength impressed her; it had taken three nuns and Sorcha, all their combined power, to budge a single stone. Yet he chipped and lifted and placed without ceasing, getting more work done since breakfast than Sorcha and the nuns had all summer.
He smelled much, much better—before Mother Brigette had allowed him to eat, she’d made him bathe. He also looked very silly—his clothes had been taken away to be cleaned and when they were boiled, they’d fallen to shreds. So Mother Brigette had given him a monk’s humble brown robes. But they didn’t fit his lanky frame, so his wrists stuck out of the sleeves and his calves stuck out beneath the hem. He wore the hood hanging down his back. The rag covered his eye and forehead and lent him the clownish air of a child playing blind man’s bluff. His dark beard covered his cheeks and chin. Occasionally he looked up at the sun as if checking to see
“No!”
From within the abbey, she heard a sound like the shuffle of dry leaves—she knew from experience a starched habit made just that noise. The door swung wide. An elderly nun stood back, her gaze lowered, her hands tucked into her sleeves.
“Sister Theresa, we have a traveler cast upon our shores.” Sorcha stepped into the foyer. “Tell Mother Brigette he requests shelter until he can return to his own world.”
At the sound of Sorcha’s chattering teeth, dear Sister Theresa looked up. Her reserved demeanor fled and she crooned, “By our Lord, darlin’, did ye fall in the drink? Hurry, we need to get ye warmed and bathed before ye catch yer death.” She wrapped a dry blanket over Sorcha’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “To the infirmary wi’ ye!”
“Yes, Sister.” Sorcha was in no condition to argue. Great shudders wracked her.
Now Sister Theresa looked at Arnou. She caught her breath at his stench. Pointing to an invisible spot on the floor, in a tone of pure steel-willed command, she said, “Ye! Traveler! Stand right there until someone comes to get ye. Don’t move! Don’t touch anything! And don’t get anything dirty.”
Arnou shuffled inside.
Sister Theresa joined Sorcha and helped her down the corridor. “Keep yer chin up, dear, we’ll get ye there.”
Sorcha nodded, knowing that in the infirmary heated bags of sand would warm her feet. Sister Rebecca, the infirmary director, would dose her with honey collected from the bees in Sorcha’s own garden. Yet her footsteps dragged as she walked through the stripes of sunlight that shone through the high windows. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling she was abandoning Arnou.
“Miss!” he called in his rough voice.
She turned back to face him, ridiculously relieved at the chance to check on him once more. “Yes?”
He stood in the foyer where Sister Theresa had told him to stand, his neck craned, watching her with such desolation it seemed as if she walked away with his salvation in her hands. “I never asked your name.”
“Sorcha.” As she stared through the alternating light and shadow, something about him seemed familiar. The way he stood, his legs apart as if he laid claim to the very earth, his fist carelessly clenched at his hip. The way he held his head, his chin held at an arrogant tilt. And that eye... his unblinking, wide, and mesmerizing eye... it seemed as if in a long-ago dream Sorcha had seen his eyes, both his eyes, staring at her while the hand of Death reached out... .
Sister Theresa squeezed Sorcha’s arm.
Torn from her contemplation, Sorcha jumped.
“Dear,” Sister Theresa said, “ye’re going to catch yer death of cold if ye don’t hie yerself to the infirmary.”
When Sorcha again looked at Arnou, he grinned and bobbed his head. Again he was a simple, foolish fisherman.
Yet on her chest, the silver cross burned.
Chapter 2
T he next morning, Sorcha stood with her hoe in her hand and watched Arnou as he hefted blocks onto the partly built low rock wall around the herb garden. His strength impressed her; it had taken three nuns and Sorcha, all their combined power, to budge a single stone. Yet he chipped and lifted and placed without ceasing, getting more work done since breakfast than Sorcha and the nuns had all summer.
He smelled much, much better—before Mother Brigette had allowed him to eat, she’d made him bathe. He also looked very silly—his clothes had been taken away to be cleaned and when they were boiled, they’d fallen to shreds. So Mother Brigette had given him a monk’s humble brown robes. But they didn’t fit his lanky frame, so his wrists stuck out of the sleeves and his calves stuck out beneath the hem. He wore the hood hanging down his back. The rag covered his eye and forehead and lent him the clownish air of a child playing blind man’s bluff. His dark beard covered his cheeks and chin. Occasionally he looked up at the sun as if checking to see
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