Page 18 of So Close To Heaven
Alaric was still surveying the ruins, kicking aside what looked to be a toppled piece of furniture, a wooden screen, a room divider maybe. “Let us hope there are nae truths buried in the ash.”
A movement caught Ivy’s eye, low and swift in the corner of the entryway. A small mouse scurried across the uneven stones, pausing near the wall where it sniffed at something unseen. Ivy blinked at it, inexplicably comforted by the sight. Life. Fragile, enduring, searching. She crouched slowly, careful not to startleit, and watched the tiny creature vanish through a crack in the base of the wall. A thread of hay trailed after it like a tail.
A group of men were searching what remained of the all-stone parts of the ancient convent. They lit candles here and there, golden light beginning to fill the space, and shimmering in the narrow corridors that sprang out from this main hall. Ivy had a suspicion that Alaric didn’t expect them to find anything, no enemy anyway, or he’d have led the search himself. She wasn’t sure why she thought that, how she’d reached that conclusion about him, but sensed she was right. They returned as Ivy was attempting to rise from her squat, a small action she’d not have thought twice about even a month ago. She teetered a bit as she tried to stand and had to put her hand to the ground to steady herself before she pushed upward again. At the same time, a shadow loomed over her and a large hand latched onto her arm, helping her rise.
Mildly startled, she glanced up to find the hand belonged to the laird.
“Oh, thanks.”
He did not acknowledge this, but said, “We’ll make camp here for the time being, this part is safe. Ye can rest, find a cell abovestairs to—”
“A cell?” she questioned, blinking.
Naturally, he scowled at her interruption, but did clarify, “A chamber, the nuns’ quarters.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Make yerself comfortable, get some sleep.”
“What will you be doing?”
“We’ve got to secure the area and I—” he stopped and shook his head, a bit gruffly. “I’ll be gone for a while,” he said next, vaguely, as if he didn’t like having to describe his plans to her.
“But is some of your army staying here?” she pressed, trying not to sound anxious. Or was he simply dumping her hereanyway, as he’d intended before he knew the convent had been burned?
His features tightened, forming yet another deep crease between his brows. “Aye. Ye’ll nae be left alone here.”
Sensing he’d been mildly offended, she nodded but said no more. If she knew him any better, if she wasn’t still a little intimidated by him, she might have challenged,Well, you were happy to abandon me earlier today, saying I wasn’t your concern.
He left her then, following the others he’d been conferring with outside.
Ivy remained still, face turned toward the open door. Muted voices echoed through the rain-drenched gloom. Alaric’s was among them now, low and clipped, issuing orders to his men. She couldn’t make out anything as he was speaking his Gaelic again. The sounds blurred together, war-speak in a foreign language, she guessed, but the tone was unmistakable: firm, decisive, utterly in control.
Ivy turned, her gaze sweeping the narrow corridor behind her. She moved in that direction. The space was cold but dry, and she saw that candle sconces had been lit on the walls. Beneath some of those fixtures, wax melted in long crooked lines down the stone. A few doors stood open, revealing rooms that seemed more utilitarian than welcoming, surely not bedrooms. She continued along the corridor, finding a spiral staircase, and climbed to the next level. Here, all the doors were closed. She peeked in a few, discovering thatcellwas certainly an appropriate term, each room small, no bigger than a walk-in closet, with little more than a narrow cot, squat table, and a deep-set window no wider than her forearm. Stark, quiet, spare—a cell indeed, which smelled of musty linen and old stone.
She pressed on. The scent of soot still lingered faintly in the air, but less so here in the ancient wing. Somewhere deeperin the priory, water dripped steadily, tap, tap, tap. She passed another narrow staircase that spiraled upward, its top lost in shadow. Beyond it, the corridor turned, and Ivy paused, caught by the shifting silver light that spilled from a partially open door. She pushed it open farther and stepped inside.
Unlike the bare cells she’d encountered thus far, this one was a large bedchamber and held a carved table and a padded chair near the hearth. A faded tapestry hung on one wall, a Madonna cradling a lamb. Shelves of books lined one corner of the room and a trunk sat beneath the window, its latch a dull silver. The bed frame was carved wood, four posts, the mattress appearing far more plush than those thin ones on the small cots.
Mother Superior’s room, she imagined—or whatever they called the head nun in this century.
While the bed looked ten times more inviting than any other one she’d seen yet, she was not at all so presumptuous as to claim this room for herself. She slipped quietly back down the corridor, and continued to open doors, snooping around.
At some point in her quiet wandering, Ivy found what must have been the convent’s old garderobe—a narrow stone closet with a built-in bench over a shaft that disappeared into darkness. The smell alone convinced her it was still in use, or had been until very recently. Another chamber, tucked behind a shuttered door, held a porcelain pot discreetly set behind a curtained panel. Ivy hesitated only a moment before stepping inside and closing the door. She might be seven centuries out of place, but some needs were timeless—she was seven months pregnant after all. Possibly only the trauma of the day had kept her mind off her need to pee.
As she made her way back down the corridor, she didn’t miss the way the smooth stone walls and worn lintels whisperedauthenticityat every turn. The hallway was dim and cold, but her fingers trailed along the rough stone wall as she walked,finding small comfort in its permanence. Clearly, she could not dismiss this place as a staged set or some elaborate trick of trauma or delusion. Certainly not when the bathroom situation felt convincingly medieval.
Eventually, with little else to do or explore, she decided on a room to use for herself, one of the small cells closer to the first set of stairs she climbed.
Inside, sitting atop the bedside table, was a small squat taper in a metal holder, the wick blackened from previous use. Ivy took possession of the candle and stepped out into the corridor, lighting the wick from the one of the torches in the wall before returning to the room she’d chosen. The flame was weak, barely enough to push back the gloom but she had no intention of sitting or even sleeping in complete darkness.
She closed the door behind her, returned the candle to the table, and rubbed at her arms as she sat down gingerly on the cot. Her mind spun, sluggish and yet scattered, but she was too tired to chase answers. Outside, the rain tapped gently on the roof, a soft rhythm against the silence of stone.
Imagining that it must be near or past midnight by now, Ivy sighed and thought to catch what sleep she might. She didn’t undress but did remove her boots and socks before she curled on the cot with the coarse wool blanket tucked beneath her chin, the small window offering a square of inky sky. She thought the rain might have stopped, but that the wind had picked up.
And, as often happened, the moment she laid down her head, her mind began to churn. The ache in her limbs begged for sleep, but her thoughts were relentless.
Somehow—impossible as it seemed—the most unbelievable, dramatic event of the day hadn’t yet been fully examined. She hadn’t had the space, the silence, thestillnessuntil now to let the thought in. Maybe because she didn’t believe it.Couldn’tbelieve it!
