“I went to see if there might be any problems with our sailing tonight,” said Benedict. “None. The sea’s like a millpond.” He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Still powerful cold, mind. A bit of sleet fell for a time, but an old sailor told me it wouldn’t be for long. He says clear skies and no wind tonight.”
Edward grinned broadly. “My thoughts too. Now, Palmer, I suggest we leave these ladies to prepare for our journey and our visit. You, sir, need to come with me to buy you and Sister Theodosia a set of new clothing. You cannot appear before His Grace looking like ragbags.”
Benedict’s mouth tightened. “I’m afraid I’ve no means to buy any, Brother Edward. Neither has Theodosia.” He gave Theodosia the first eye contact he’d made since he entered.
“No need to worry about such things,” said Edward.
“No, indeed,” said Amélie. “Brother Edward and I are well looked after by Mother Church. It is only fitting we should provide for you.”
“Thank you, Mama, Brother Edward,” said Theodosia. “But I am sure this dress can be cleaned and repaired.” She looked down at Gwen’s chestnut dress, ragged and stained but the only thing she possessed.
“Indeed it can, for there will be no waste.” said Amélie. “But you still need something more fitting.”
“I agree.” Edward picked up his cloak. “Come, Palmer. The sooner we’re gone, the sooner we’re back.”
Benedict followed with no look to Theodosia as he closed the door on his way out.
Her mother gestured to her. “Let me see that dress.”
She walked over to her mother and stood in front of her.
Amélie tutted as she leaned forward to examine it in the window’s light. “Turn, slowly, so I can see how much there is to do.”
As Theodosia did so, she tutted again. “What have you been doing?”
Running. Riding. Climbing. Fighting. How could she explain to Mama what she’d done? “Our journey was at times a great trial, Mama, with many hardships.”
Amélie looked up at her daughter’s somber tone, and the disapproving lines of her face softened in sympathy. “Of course, my blessed. It must have been dreadful for you. You will be keen to be restored to a godly life.”
Theodosia opened her mouth to concur, then closed it again. She merely nodded, which seemed to satisfy her mother.
Amélie rummaged in her pocket and drew out a spool of thread speared through with a long sewing needle. “I only pray I have enough thread.”
Dreadful. There were many, many times over the last weeks when Theodosia would have agreed wholeheartedly. The terrible deaths she’d witnessed. The sheer, awful terror of being at the hands of Fitzurse and his monstrous companions. But there had been other times that had not been dreadful at all, when being out in the world had been exciting, exhilarating. Riding through snow-topped forests, so beautiful they made her heart ache. The scent of dawn air, unspoiled by humankind. The feel of Quercus’s power beneath her as she learned to control him.
And Benedict. The way he moved, the way he ran. The effortless strength of his broad shoulders. The force of his kisses, the gentleness of his caresses, last night…
A knock sounded at the closed door.
“Come in!” said Amélie. “Why, Lae — Theodosia, you started so then. You see? You are still shaken by your suffering.”
“I am fine, Mama.” Theodosia went to the door, cheeks warm at her straying thoughts. She opened it to Brother Paulus.
The monk held two metal buckets, breathless with his burden. “Excuse me, ladies. I’ve near finished doing the floors. Your room is the last.”
“I’m afraid you will have to excuse us a while longer,” called Amélie. “We have sewing to do, and I do not want to lose the daylight. Pray leave us.”
The monk’s thin lips set in irritation, but he turned to make his way back down the landing to the long flight of stairs. Lines stood out his scrawny hands with the weight of the buckets.
“Why not leave those, Brother?” said Theodosia. “Then you will not have to carry them all the way back up again.”
He turned back and came in through the door with slow steps.
Her mother wore the dawn of a frown that neither he nor Theodosia had followed her instructions, but Theodosia paid her no heed. One of the buckets was half full of coarse sand, the other with an amber liquid. She was sure she could not have carried such a burden up the flights of narrow stairs, let alone the slight, elderly brother.
Brother Paulus made for the far corner next to the window.