Page 3 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
“Ye pee on yer knuckles?”
The nun ignored Nicola’s question. “I’m Sister Mary Titania. That was my name, back home, ye ken.” The woman was cheerful piling bags onto her shoulder again. “Titania McGee.”
Coira made a little choking sound. “Titania McGee?”
“’Tis an auld Greek name, I’ve been told.”
“Can I call ye Tits? Tits McG—”
“Please excuse my sister,” blurted Nicola, reaching out to snatch back one of her satchels. “She likes to shorten everyone’s names to make her life easier.”
Sister Mary Titania chortled gleefully. “She’s going to have her work cut out for her, then. Come along, I’ll get ye settled, and Coira can decide how long she’s going to stay with us.”
As she followed them, Coira muttered, “I cannae decide if it’d be hilarious or a penance to stay any longer.”
Likely both.
The nun kept up a convoluted litany of instructions and asides and gossip as she led them past the gardens and washing lines strung haphazardly from the outer walls, through the open portcullis, and into what had once likely been a barracks. Now ‘twas…well, Nicola supposed ‘twas still a barracks, only a different kind.
“This is where the acolytes and the nuns sleep,” called out Sister Mary Titania as she hustled them toward the stairs. “This month I have my own room above stairs—best part of being Mother Superior—and ye shall as well. Of course, we’ve nae courtyard, which is bloody inconvenient, but nae one asked me.”
As they huffed up the steps to the great hall—luckily, it appeared to still be used as such, although there were enough religious tapestries and crosses hanging around for Nicola to guess this is where the nuns heard Mass as well—Sister Mary Titania called over her shoulder to them.
“This is our version of the chapel. ‘Tis also where we have our meals, which can be confusing at times. I swear, Sister Mary Influenza starts salivating every time we kneel for prayer. Which is, after all, better than Sister Mary Novella.”
Nicola glanced at her sister to see if Coira was going to raise a brow at those names, but Coira was busy oogling a tapestry which showed the martyrdom of St. Stephen.
I dinnae ken there were that many arrows. But I suppose if one chooses to depict the mannude, one can fit a few more in various places.
Since their hostess was waiting, Nicola hurried across the hall. “Sister Mary…Novena, ye said?”
“Nay, Sister Mary Novella. ‘Tis what we get for allowing these lasses to choose their own names upon taking vows. She’s the one who willnae bend her knees. She says ‘tis penance, but I’m no’ convinced ‘tisnae some sort of ague. She’ll be coming to see ye tomorrow after Prime.”
Prime? Damnation, they expected her to start her day right away, did they not?
“Doesnae bend her knees?” Nicola panted, climbing the next set of stairs to the upper tower floors. What kind of conventwasthis?
“Och, aye. We have our collection of strange plagues and odd ailments. Sister Mary Epiderma will be able to explain it all to ye. Sister.”
An older woman stepped out of the shadow, where she’d been hidden so completely, she wrenched a little gasp from Nicola’s lips. The mother superior began to hand off some of the bags. As she took them, the older nun inclined her head regally.
“Welcome to t’ convent of St. Dorcas t’ Ever Petulant, milady. We are pleased ye’re ‘ere.”
“Sister Mary Epiderma is in charge of our infirmary, but now ye’re here to help her, I’m certain our patients will improve.”
“I’m no’,” the older woman growled. “I ‘ave sent for Fat’er T’eodolp’is to come administer last rites for Lady Ellen.”
Last rites? Oh dear. Nicola hurried after the pair of them. “What ails the lady?”
“Naught a pep talk and some fresh air willnae cure,” announced the well-endowed Mother Superior cheerfully.
But the older nun snorted. “The lady gave birt’ four mont’s ago, and ‘as been slowly weakening. I fear an infection. But ourMot’er Superior, in all ‘er wisdom, believes it can be overcome with some positive t’inking and scented oils.”
Such a strange accent, but the woman was unfailingly proper. Nicola trailed her into a large room which had been portioned into six sleeping areas, each surrounded by white curtains. There was a set of large doors on the opposite end of the room which opened onto a balcony.
The room was cheery—there was even a vase of flowers by the single occupied bed—and had obviously once been the laird’s chamber. Nicola handed her satchel to Coira and hurried toward the occupied bed. The curtains had been drawn back, and a petite woman reclined against the pillows, her skin sallow and her cheeks sunken.
Her eyes were closed and Nicola had to listen closely to hear the woman’s labored breathing.
