The abbess snorted herself awake. She blinked and looked around, clearing her throat. She had fallen asleep over her desk, quill still in hand. Ink had smeared over the scroll of parchment, and the letter she’d been writing was now illegible. She grumbled and scolded herself for ruining a good piece of parchment and wasting ink. Both were expensive, and with the limited funds in the abbey, she had to be careful. Still muttering to herself, she cleaned the mess and packed the writing tools away on the shabby desk. She could rewrite the letter in the morning. It was late, judging by the moon and the smoldering coals in her small hearth. Yawning, she shuffled across the room to her bed, and it groaned as she lowered herself to sit on the edge.
As she bent to slip off her thin leather shoes, a gust of wind blew the shutters open with a bang, and a shiver ran down her spine. She hugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders and hoisted herself back up. Summer was leaving, and the nights had grown cold. When she was younger, she loved the cool breeze of late summer nights, but as she strained to stand from her bed, the ache in her bones made her feel otherwise. She wrestled with the broken shutters and made a mental note to ask Father Wymund to fix them in the morning. As she did, a sound from outside caught her attention. She peered out at the garden, her eyes straining to see even under the bright light of the full moon. The garden and south corner of the horse pasture were empty, but just near the main path, she could barely make out a horse with a rider. It was far too dark to make out anything other than a silhouette, but the abbess could see they were approaching the abbey’s main gate.
They must be looking for shelter, she surmised.
The hour was late for travelers, but as the royal wedding was soon, they were likely headed to Camelot. Since she was up, she decided she might as well greet them herself. She and the other nuns had quite enough soup leftover from dinner, and she could heat it up over the fire if they were hungry. The abbess finally managed to close the shutters and made her way out of her room and down the narrow hallway, careful to not make much noise. The wooden floor creaked under her footsteps. It took her a moment to get down the small set of steps and into the main foyer. She had to steady herself against the wall to cross to the door. She took a breath in and used all her strength to pull the heavy curved door open to reveal a tall figure in a hooded cloak with their hands raised as if they had been pushing on the door.
“Oh! Good evening, Mother.” The surprised voice that came from under the hood echoed through the abbess’s ears. “I did not expect anyone to be awake. I hope I have not frightened you.”
The abbess froze, unable to move. Her thoughts swam around in her head, jumping away from her when she tried to make sense of them. She found herself staring at the deep blue fabric of the robe. It was fine, with small silver thistle embroidery running around the edge. A noblewoman, by any account. After a moment, she shook herself, and her head cleared as if from a fog. She beckoned the woman inside.
“No, no, not at all. Come in, come in.” The abbess stepped aside to let the woman in. “I was already awake and heard your horse. I’m Mother Alba.”
“Thank you.” The woman stepped inside, and as she moved, her cloak glimmered in the moonlight like the stars in the night sky. Alba stared. The movement of the fabric was like water rippling in a smooth pond. The woman removed her hood and revealed straight black hair and bright violet eyes that shone as if light came from inside them. There was something about purple eyes that Alba should have remembered, but she couldn’t quite grasp it.
“I do hope I’m not intruding.” The woman smiled softly at her, and Alba felt her shoulders relax, forgetting all about the woman’s eyes.
“All travelers are welcome here. Our Lord says, ‘Forget not to show love unto strangers.’” Alba closed the door behind her as a sense of calm washed over her body.
“You are very kind,” the woman said, clasping her gloved hands in front of her.
“Are you traveling far?” Alba took a torch off the wall and crossed back along the foyer to the main hearth, where the coals were still glowing. Her elbow creaked as she stuck the torch into the embers.
“Not too far,” the woman answered as Alba poked at the coals. “I’m headed to Camelot for the prince’s wedding.”
“Oh!” Alba straightened and turned to the woman with a grin. “Such wonderful news, isn’t it? I would go myself, but I am far too old to be traveling nowadays. Have you been to the city before?”
“Many times.” The woman followed Alba toward the back of the convent. She looked around, her eyes darting to the corners and roof. She even slid her hand across the wooden walls, as if looking for an opening. Alba wanted to question her, but when she opened her mouth, she forgot what she was going to ask. She waved for the woman to follow her to the guest wing. Alba used the wall to steady herself as they made their way down the corridors. Her knees weren’t what they used to be, and she really should’ve just knuckled down and used a cane. But she was admittedly too proud.
“I’ve only been to the city once myself,” said Alba, her breathing labored. “Nearly twenty years ago, I think now.”
Alba pushed open another curved door, and they entered the kitchen—one of the few fully stone rooms in the convent. It was cramped and piled high with jars, wheat, dried meat, and various herbs and vegetation. Despite their meager allowance, Alba made sure they were always prepared to feed anyone in need.
“Are you hungry, dear?” Alba headed toward the large cauldron over the now cold hearth. “We have plenty of soup left over. It’d be no bother to heat some up for you.” Alba peeked under the lid of the soup, and the spiced scent filled her nose. Perhaps she would even heat some up for herself.
“No, thank you,” said the woman, who took it upon herself to look through the various jars and bowls. She studied the hearth, then eventually crossed the kitchen to stand right next to Alba. “I am not hungry, and I’m sure you have many mouths to feed already.”
Alba gave a slight chuckle, already forgetting what the woman had done. “Oh, only a few of us here. We’re a humble lot. And as you can see, we have plenty of food.”
The woman glanced over at the kitchen once more, an unreadable expression on her face. She put her hand on the wall and froze. Her gaze darted to Alba, the soft expression now twisted by an animalistic snarl. Alba started, but the woman no longer stood at the wall glaring. Rather, she stood in front of her, hands crossed in front of her belly, the polite smile back on her face.
“So if you’re hungry,” Alba was surprised to find herself saying, “don’t hesitate to wander in here for some food. And don’t be surprised if you see Sister Hunna digging about. She’s always coming in for a midnight snack.”
Alba led the woman through the kitchen and down another hallway that ended with a curved door. She handed the torch to the woman and pulled a key ring from her belt. She fumbled through the keys, muttering to herself, “So many keys . . . I can hardly remember what they’re all for. Ah, here we are.” She unlocked the door and let it swing open, revealing the guest chambers. A row of slim cots lined the left wall, with a plain blanket folded on each. A pile of wood sat next to the small hearth, and shutters in the two windows rumbled in the wind.
“It’s not much, but the beds are always clean,” said Alba, stepping down into the room. “We haven’t had many travelers
lately, so you may need to shake the dust off the blankets a bit.” She reached for the torch, but the woman pulled it away from her.
“Thank you, Mother.” The woman smiled again, and her straight white teeth flashed in the firelight. “But I’m afraid you won’t be needing this anymore.”
“What?”
The woman tossed the torch aside, and Alba’s stomach dropped. “What are you—”
The last thing Alba saw was the flames.
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