Tracing the Shadow Page 7

  “And why are you out on your own, Klervie? Where’s your mother?”

  The blue dulled again. She turned her head away. “Dead.”

  “And your father?”

  “Dead…”

  “So who’s caring for you?” But he guessed the answer already. She was just another of the teeming city’s unnumbered orphans, cast out to fend for herself. She could hardly be more than five or six years in age.

  “Come, little one.” He caught her up in his arms and settled her on Tinidor’s back, placing her little hands on the pommel. “Cling tight or you’ll fall off.” He climbed up behind her, taking Tinidor’s reins in one hand and gripping the drooping child firmly with the other.

  What am I doing? I have duties to attend to at the Forteresse.

  But wasn’t this a part of his calling? He had chosen to become a warrior in God’s cause, and that must surely involve defending the weak as well as protecting the shrines and holy places from desecration by unbelievers.

  The child’s head, her fair hair twisted into dirty rat’s tails, drooped back against his chest. An odd and unfamiliar sensation flooded through him as he gazed down at her. In spite of her filthy state and unwashed smell, he felt he must protect this vulnerable child as if she were his own. When he became a Guerrier of the Commanderie, he had taken a vow of celibacy, abjuring all family ties and earthly distractions to dedicate his life to following the way of Saint Sergius. But for a moment, he knew what it was to cherish a little daughter.

  Abbess Ermengarde looked at the sleeping waif in Captain de Lanvaux’s arms, then glanced briefly into his eyes before modestly lowering her gaze. But inside her breast, her heart had begun to flutter quite immodestly. Ruaud de Lanvaux had returned from the Holy Land with his skin tanned copper by the merciless desert sun, which only served to emphasize the piercing blue of his fair-lashed eyes. Tall and lean, the captain’s fine-chiseled features reminded her irresistibly of the warrior angels depicted in the jeweled stained glass of the convent chapel.

  “Can you and your good sisters take this child, Abbess?” Ruaud was asking.

  The Abbess blinked. Another orphan to care for? And one that looked so sickly…

  “We are already full, I’m afraid—” she began.

  “Would you take her in as a special favor for me?” The radiant blue eyes pierced hers. She wanted so much to say, “Yes, I’ll do anything for you, dear Captain,” except a mischievous little voice had begun to whisper at the back of her mind, “Why does this urchin mean so much to him? Surely she couldn’t be his…” But she felt herself blushing at such a scandalous and ignoble thought. Ruaud de Lanvaux’s reputation was blameless.

  “And look.” He pointed to the book the child was clutching. “Lives of the Holy Saints. She’s from a devout family, that’s for sure.”

  Or she’s filched it, thought the Abbess. But then she was foolish enough to look up at the captain once more and found herself spellbound by his dazzling gaze. She felt as if the golden sunlight that warmed the white dome of the Holy Shrine in distant Enhirre was reflected in his eyes. “I’m sure that—for you—we can squeeze another one in,” she heard herself saying. For surely, if Captain de Lanvaux was so interested in the child, he would come often to the convent to visit her. And that idea appealed to the Abbess more than she could have possibly imagined.

  A grave smile spread across his handsome features and the Abbess’s heart almost melted. Flustered, she forced herself to look back at the neglected child. “I don’t suppose she has a name…”

  “She called herself Klervie.”

  The Abbess tutted. “What kind of a name is that? Perhaps you would like to choose another name for her, Captain? One more suitable for a little acolyte of our dear Saint Azilia?” She could not help smiling coyly back at him, unable to restrain herself.

  “She has blue eyes of a most remarkable color,” said the captain distantly.

  “Not unlike yours, dear Captain…”

  “I think ‘Celestine’ would make an excellent name for her.”

  “Then I shall write that name down on our orphanage roll. Celestine. A heavenly name.”

  “And I shall return to see how she is progressing.”

  “Oh yes, Captain, please do,” said the Abbess, smiling even more warmly. “Please call whenever you wish.”

  Captain de Lanvaux knelt beside the child and gently placed his hand on her fair head. “Till we meet again, little Celestine.”

  Klervie could hear angels singing. Their clear, high voices spiraled around her like threads of silver light.

  She opened her eyes. She could still hear the angels…although now they sounded much farther away.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Good gracious me, no.” A woman’s face appeared above hers, wrinkled and red-cheeked like a cherry. “In fact, you’re very much alive.” The woman leaned over her and felt her forehead. “The fever’s left you at last.”

  “But I can hear angels singing…”

  “That?” The woman straightened up, listening. Then she laughed. “That’s the Novices’ choir practicing their scales. Sister Noyale would be most amused to hear them called angels.”

  “Novices?” echoed Klervie sleepily, not understanding.

  “We have two choirs here. The Novices are the older girls, aged twelve to sixteen. The younger ones are called the Skylarks.”

  “Where’s Maman?” Klervie asked, then remembered. The distant singing seemed to recede even farther as she recalled staring in shock at the empty bed, the concierge’s heartless words ringing in her ears. Your mother’s dead, child. Dead and buried. Tears welled in her eyes, tears of loss and rage at the unjustness of it all. Why had Maman abandoned her? She tried to hold the tears in until her shoulders shook with the effort.

  “Whatever’s the matter, ma petite?” said the woman. Klervie heard kindness and exasperation mingled in her voice. How could she explain? She turned her face away. “Were you dreaming of your mother? Don’t grieve for her anymore; you’re part of a new family now, one with many sisters, young and old, like me. My name’s Kinnie, Sister Kinnie.”

  Klervie gazed at her through her tears, uncomprehending.

  “You’re so lucky to have such a good-hearted benefactor. Captain de Lanvaux brought you to us. Otherwise you would have starved on the streets, little one. Now you’re under good Saint Azilia’s protection. So dry your eyes.” Klervie took the handkerchief that Sister Kinnie gave her and mopped her face. “You’re still weak after the fever. We’ll have to build up your strength, Celestine.”

  “Celestine?” echoed Klervie. She looked around to see who Sister Kinnie was speaking to.

  “Every child who enters our convent is given a new name. Your benefactor named you Celestine. You will soon forget your old name.”

  In the dusky moonlight, the picture engraved on the front of the book wavered, and in silvery, sinuous lines began to rise from the cover until a tall, slender female form hovered over Klervie, its hands clasped together as though in prayer, its luminous eyes gazing down on her.

  “Who are you?” quavered Klervie who was now called Celestine. “Are you a h—holy saint?” She stumbled over the words she had heard the good sisters use.

  “I am the one your father bound to protect you.”

  “Papa?”

  “I am bound to this book, Klervie. I cannot break free. I can only help you through the book.”

  “You mustn’t call me Klervie anymore. They’ve changed my name to Celestine.” It was a pretty name, even if it felt like wearing borrowed clothes.

  “Celestine,” echoed the spirit in a voice like a shimmer of clear raindrops.

  “Are you really a Faie?” Celestine asked wonderingly. Faies could grant wishes, or so the tales Maman used to tell her said. And Celestine felt her heart swelling with the desire to make a wish. A wish so strong that her whole body trembled at the very thought of it.

  Bring them back. Bring back my papa and maman.
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br />   “I do not know the word ‘Faie.’ I know only that your father charged me to look after you.”

  “You cannot grant wishes?” The words were barely a whisper; her throat had tightened with the strain of trying not to cry. “Not even one?”

  “I am bound to the book,” repeated the Faie, and its translucent eyes seemed to brim with tears, mirroring Celestine’s disappointment.

  “Is this the new girl?”

  “What a pale little mite she is.”

  “What’s your name, mite?”

  Celestine stared, mute with apprehension, at the gaggle of curious girls surrounding her bed. She wanted to pull the sheet up to cover her face but it was too late to hide.

  “Give the poor child room to breathe!” called a woman, and Celestine recognized Sister Kinnie’s voice with relief. “She’s still recuperating.” Out of breath, Sister Kinnie came bustling up, shooing the girls away from Celestine’s bed so that she could sit next to her. “Now, girls, this is Celestine, our new little sister. I want you to teach her about our daily tasks. She’s well enough to move out of the Infirmary into Skylarks. So, Angelique, you will help her with her things; Rozenne and Katell, you will take her by the hand and bring her to the dormitory.”

  “I’m Rozenne,” announced a brown-eyed girl, seizing Celestine’s right hand in a firm grip and marching her toward the door.

  “Wait,” wailed a thin-faced girl with dark plaits. “Sister said me, too.”

  “You’re too slow, Katell,” said Rozenne, laughing. “Keep up!” The other girls laughed too as Katell hastened after them, plaits flying like streamers.

  But Celestine kept looking over her shoulder, anguished that she had been separated from her book.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Rozenne.

  “My book.”

  “Your book?” echoed Katell punctiliously. “Our book now. We share everything at Saint Azilia’s.”

  “This old tome?” Angelique, tall and willowy, with curling hair the color of spring catkins, cast a disparaging glance at Celestine’s most prized possession. “It’s just a boring Lives of the Holy Saints.”

  “My papa gave it to me.” Celestine was on the verge of tears again, yet felt ashamed to weep in front of the older girls.

  “Don’t worry. We won’t take it if it means so much to you.”

  The staircase wound endlessly upward and Celestine, still weak from fever, began to imagine that she would never reach the top. At last, breathless, her legs wobbling from the effort, she stumbled into the dormitory. Though the room was sparsely furnished with two rows of beds, light poured in through tall arched windows set beneath a high, sloping ceiling supported by thick wooden beams.

  “The sisters call us the Skylarks, because we’re at the very top of the convent,” said Rozenne.

  “Only the youngest novices sleep up here,” Angelique said. “When you’re twelve, you move to the Novices’ dormitory on the floor below.” She tossed her fair curls. “We Novices sing in the evenings as well as the mornings, so we’re not supposed to wake you little ones when we return. You need your sleep to grow.”

  “This will be your bed,” said Rozenne kindly, “next to mine.” She took Celestine’s book from Angelique and laid it on the little bed. “Katell, fetch a sheet for Celestine’s bed.”

  “How old are you?” Katell asked, suddenly swinging round on her heel to stick her face into Celestine’s. Startled, Celestine took a step back, screwing up her eyes, for Katell’s breath smelled strongly of licorice comfits.

  “I’ll be six when the snows come,” Celestine said.

  “You’re only a baby.” Rozenne stroked her hair. “I was six when I came here, two years ago.”

  “I’m seven, but I’m half a head taller than Rozenne.” Katell fished in the pocket of her smock and brought out a couple of dusty comfits. “Here. You can have one. Sister Kinnie keeps a jar in the Infirmary. Sometimes she gives them as a reward.”

  Celestine nodded her thanks and put the comfit in her mouth. The strong flavor made her tongue sting, but she hadn’t the heart to spit the gift out into her palm.

  Katell twirled away down the dormitory toward a great armoire of dark-stained wood. Celestine trailed after her. As Katell tugged the door open, a faint odor of lavender and starch wafted out. Clean, folded sheets were piled high inside.

  “Catch!” Katell tossed her one. Celestine reached up and caught it. Then she saw the painting on the wall. A lady gazed down on the dormitory with eyes of soft violet blue, her golden tresses falling about her shoulders, her slender fingers caressing the keys of a gilded portative organ.

  “Oh,” breathed Celestine, gazing back. “She’s so pretty. Who is she?”

  “Don’t you know? She’s Saint Azilia, silly,” said Katell scornfully.

  “How could she know?” Rozenne put her hands protectively on Celestine’s shoulders, bending down to whisper in her ear. “She’s the saint of music. Our patron saint.”

  Celestine nodded, still staring at the smiling lady.

  “And here’s a clean smock for you.” Katell thrust a folded garment at her.

  The smock was made of brown linen, like the ones Rozenne and Katell were wearing. Celestine stared at it in bewilderment, not knowing how to put it on over her shift.

  “I’ll help you.” Rozenne pulled it over Celestine’s head and showed her how to tie the fastenings. “Oh dear. It’s rather too large for you, isn’t it? But you’ll grow.”

  “Now you’re a Skylark too.” Katell grinned at her. “Don’t look so sad! You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  A bell began to ring, a rapid succession of clangs that echoed around the white convent walls.

  “Choir practice!” The girls scampered off, leaving Celestine standing, bemused, in the middle of the dormitory.

  “Come on, Celestine!” Rozenne ran back and grabbed her by the hand. “Sister Noyale will scold us if we’re late.”

  The high, vaulted ceiling of the chapel vanished into dim greyness far above Celestine’s head. She trotted along at Rozenne’s side, hearing the patter of their light footfalls magnified, echoing far into the shadows.

  “You’re late,” said a stern female voice.

  “Here’s the new Skylark, Sister Noyale.”

  Celestine shuffled forward, trying not to trip over her smock. Sister Noyale towered above her.

  “Sweet Azilia, she’s an infant! I’m not running a nursery here.” Celestine registered a strong yet handsome face, brown-skinned, with arching dark brows and eyes that flashed with annoyance. She also noticed a round mole like a beauty spot above Sister’s Noyale’s upper lip—and, fascinated, could not keep her eyes from straying back to it. “Whatever is the Abbess thinking of?”

  Celestine shrank back. Sister Noyale scared her. She could sense that all the Skylarks were staring at her. She felt for the warmth of Rozenne’s hand and clutched it tightly.

  “Sister Kinnie said—” began Rozenne.

  “I don’t give a fig for what Sister Kinnie said. This choir is not for babes in arms.”

  What the Skylarks dreaded the most, Celestine soon learned, was the moment when Sister Noyale would abandon her lectern to pace up and down along the rows of singers, hands clasped behind her back, coiffed head down, listening intently for wrong notes. Every time this happened, Celestine would feel her voice begin to dry from terror and her thin piping fade to a whisper.

  Please don’t let it be me, she prayed silently to Saint Azilia. For before long, the choirmistress would clap her hands and in the ensuing silence sharply call out one of the girls’ names. The offender would then be made to sing the last phrase on her own, her faults exposed for all to hear, her cheeks hot red with embarrassment. And when she had finished, if Sister Noyale was displeased, she would be made to repeat it until it was correct—or her fast-dripping tears made it impossible to continue. The thought of having to endure such public humiliation terrified Celestine. She knew Sister Noyale resented her p
resence in the choir. She suspected that she was waiting for the opportunity to catch her out.

  There was so much music to learn by heart. There were chants for worship at daybreak, noontide devotions, twilight hymns, and solemn hymns for the watchnight services. Celestine was bewildered by the complexity of the words and often resorted to merely moving her lips, miming the verses that she could not begin to remember.

  “The new girl is not ready, Kinnie,” she overheard Sister Noyale complaining. “Her voice is too thin, too underdeveloped to train yet. It will stand out from the rest, like a false coin jingled in with the gold.”

  “As some of you are aware, Saint Azilia’s Day is approaching,” said Sister Noyale, eyeing each girl sternly in turn. “And to honor our patron saint, we invite guests to hear us sing. It’s the most important day of the year, so we must be note-perfect.”

  A summer storm was brewing outside and little slivers of distant lightning lit the darkening chapel. Celestine was distracted. She hated storms. Rain and hail began to rattle on the chapel roof. As the rumble of thunder growled, the girls darted nervous glances at each other.

  “I expect every Skylark to give me her full attention,” said Sister Noyale. She rapped on her lectern with her baton. “It’s just a heavy downpour, nothing more. Be thankful that you’re not working out in the kitchen gardens this afternoon. Back to ‘Protect Us, Blessed Azilia.’” She hummed a pitch. “Here’s your note. One, two, and…” The first note was almost drowned by a loud crack of thunder. Startled, Celestine looked around. The other girls had begun to sing, evidently more afraid of their choirmistress than the breaking storm.

  She was acutely aware that Sister Noyale was on the prowl again and yet every time the thunder rumbled, panic overwhelmed her and the notes she was singing went wrong.

  “Celestine!” Sister Noyale’s voice was sharp as a slap. “Stand out from the line, where I can see you. Repeat that last phrase.”