That desire now seems a shallow one, something that I have been taught to want rather than something that sprang from my own heart.
I now realize I do not even know what it is that my own heart yearns for. Once that would have terrified me—to be so formless and shapeless—but now I find it freeing. I have removed the convent’s chosen desire from my heart, like plucking a long-embedded splinter from my flesh. I have rejected the path they told me Mortain wants of me. Instead of fear, I feel . . . hunger. Hunger to fill my heart once again, but this time with what I want. I now recognize that my wants are not selfish simply because they are mine. Indeed, many of my wants are worthy ones, even noble: justice for Matelaine, safety for the other girls, honesty from the abbess, and to restore the integrity of the convent.
Ismae has managed to forge her own path between the convent and her duty to Mortain. No, not duty, but devotion, for she serves Him now with much more than simple duty. It gives me great hope that I may be able to find such a path for myself.
Thus encouraged, I murmur my gratitude to Mortain and rise to my feet. As I straighten my skirt, I hear a faint rustling off to my right. Startled, I whirl around and peer into the flickering shadows. A man stirs. Was he there all along? Or did he come in while I was deep in prayer?
He crosses himself and rises creakily to his feet. He wears a humble brown robe and a hempen rope at his waist with the nine wooden beads that mark him as a follower of the old saints. He is shorter than I. His hair is fluffy and white and dances about his head like a halo in the warm candlelight. He brings his hands together in front of his chest and bows his head in my direction. “Greetings, daughter. I did not mean to startle you.”
“I was not startled.”
The glimmer of amusement in his blue eyes gives me to believe he recognizes my small lie for what it is.
“You were completely lost in prayer,” he murmurs. “I could not bring myself to interrupt.”
For some reason I feel awkward and tongue-tied in his presence, although I cannot name why and it seems a most ridiculous reaction. It is not as if he could discern my thoughts and prayers. “It matters not, Father—”
“Effram. I am Father Effram.” He takes a step toward me. “Have you a heavy heart, child?”
I sense curiosity rather than concern in his question. “No, Father. I pray so that I may better understand my own thoughts.”
His face breaks into a smile, as if my answer has pleased him greatly. I wonder if that means he will try to tell me what he thinks my thoughts should be, and I think better of him when he does not. He continues to smile, letting the silence grow, and I cannot tell if it is meant to be a comfortable silence or an awkward one he thinks I will try to fill. If it’s the latter, he will lose at that game, for I have had far too much practice at it.
In the end, he is the first to speak. “I’ve never seen one of Arduinna’s followers dressed so . . . elegantly,” he says.
I stare blankly at him for a moment before understanding dawns. “Oh, but I’m not one of Arduinna’s followers!”
His white eyebrows draw together in puzzlement. “You aren’t? My mistake, then.”
But my curiosity it piqued. “Why did you think that I was?”
His eyes flicker to the small offering in the niche.
“I did not leave that,” I hasten to assure him.
“I know. I thought perhaps you’d come in answer to it. You have the look of one of Arduinna’s. A certain ferocity of expression.”
Well, I am feeling fierce enough, I suppose. “I do not serve Arduinna. I serve Mortain.”
He grows very still, his head tilted to the side, studying me even more intently, if that is possible. “Do you, now?” he mutters. “Well, that is truly interesting.” He smiles once more, puts his hands together, bows again, then takes his leave.
Once he has left, I sneak a furtive sniff at my arm, just to be certain the scents of wood smoke and poorly tanned leather do not cling to me still.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE NEXT DAY, DRESSED IN another one of Ismae’s gowns, I am taken to the solar to meet the duchess. I have not seen the abbess since my arrival, and have done nothing but explore the palace and talk with Ismae. A part of me itches with impatience, while another part of me has always known any challenge to the abbess would be as long and slow and drawn-out as a protracted game of chess.
But this morning, my stomach is in knots over my meeting with the duchess, for in truth, I deserve no such honor. I half fear the abbess will have already informed her of all my transgressions and laid a pall of disgrace over me.
The young page who has led me to the duchess’s quarters tells the sentry at the door who I am, then tears off down the hall to whatever duty awaits him next.
When I enter the solar, it is every bit as grand as I have been led to believe, and I am pleased that I do not stare and point like a small child. Carved oak paneling with thick velvet drapes and elaborate tapestries decorate the wall. Clear, mullioned windows sparkle in the morning sun, filling the room with cheerful light. But it is the ladies in waiting who draw my full attention, for they are not sitting at their embroidery but instead are clustered together, their heads bowed in concern. At my approach, they all look up. One of them gives me a halfhearted smile. “The duchess is not available right now,” she tells me.
I frown in puzzlement. “My apologies. I thought the page said that she’d sent for me.”
One of them looks me over with open curiosity. “Are you called Annith?” A woman gives her a quelling look. “What? She did say that if the Lady Annith arrived, we were to show her into the young princess’s chambers.”
By the poisonous looks the others are giving her, I am guessing that this sign of favor makes them uneasy. “Thank you,” I say pointedly. “I look forward to serving both the duchess and the princess in any way I can.”
“This way,” the helpful one says, then leads me toward a door that opens off the main room. “Ignore the others,” she whispers. “They are merely out of sorts because they have nothing they can offer to help.”
“To help with what?” I ask.
The girl’s face settles into sadness. “The princess Isabeau. She has taken a turn for the worse, I’m afraid, and even Ismae’s famous tinctures are not helping.” When we reach the door, she raps once, then calls out, “Lady Annith is here, Your Grace.” She smiles at me, then returns to the group of waiting women.