Page 6

An asylum, Ruby. Your mother has been in an asylum.

Guilt seized my chest. I should have tried to find her. Worked harder. Listened to that nagging voice that told me she lived. Instead, I’d thrown myself headfirst into parties, gin, and meaningless dalliances with nameless people all to blunt the pain of losing her, when she’d been here at Saint Oda’s all along.

The priory church loomed on the high ground above the river. From here, I could see the old dormitories and infirmary had been maintained and converted into the modern hospital. I followed the cobbled road out of town until it turned to dirt and stone wending its way up the hill to the old priory gates. Something about this place—the way the woods and rolling earth played with one another—set me in mind of Lothlel Green. The place where my story began, when I’d awoken from the nightmare I’d been living since my family died.

This path had been trod on foot or with horse and cart for centuries, and the ghosts of my past walked alongside me. The wind whispered ancient incantations in my ears. This was an unholy journey, and I an imperfect pilgrim.

I could still hear my mother arguing with my father the night before I left. Begging him not to put me on the steamer. But Jacob Vaughn always got his way—despite his love for my mother. I wondered then if she ever truly forgave him for his choices. The things they’d said to one another were unforgivable. And I’d been the reason for it all. I’d been dishonored. Abused and labelled a cunning whore by a ravenous press and a greedy society. Memories of those days stung. My father understood the world we inhabited far better than my mother ever did. She cursed his name that night. Told him he’d sacrificed my future for his human ambitions. I could still hear their raised voices from behind closed doors. Her words making no more sense to me now than they had then. But perhaps I would finally understand.

My muscles ached as I reached the top of the hill, where a low stone wall encircled the outer edge of the priory. I glanced down and nestled there at the bottom of the hillside was an old cemetery. Perhaps not so old, as a fresh grave lay near the water’s edge, partially washed out by the recent storms. Dirt, chaff, and other debris littered the grass, carried away by the swollen river. The water was a ruddy brown, like drying blood, and far higher than it ought to be. A large branch was lodged across the river, causing a cascade of white water over the top.

A portion of the wooden casket was exposed by the raging waters, mere inches from the river. A shallow, hastily dug grave. A small fox darted out from behind a headstone, disappearing down the river path. The orange of its coat stark against the yellows and browns of winter.

Children’s laughter rose up from behind me, their voices echoing off the broken stone walls. My stomach twisted. Whose grave, exactly, was it?

Good God, Ruby Vaughn! People die every day, it could be anyone’s. I shielded my eyes to see a small boy chasing a dog across the main courtyard—splattering mud onto themselves with their exertions. I blew out a breath, palm pressed against my erratic heart as I continued onward. Ahead a group of six or seven small children played under the watchful eye of an elderly woman. She wore a kerchief over her gray hair, with a sprigged green dress. Alongside her was a young Dominican sister, sitting on a bench beneath a tree. A prayer book open in her lap. Hari had told me the sisters were here. That this was their priory long before the hospital opened its doors. I drew in a breath and let it out again. I could do this. I could. But first I needed to clear my head. A few moments of silence to fortify myself for what lay ahead. My gaze settled upon the priory church. It was as good of a place to begin as any. Particularly as my mother had always been devout. If this had been her home, then she had most certainly spent time within those walls.

The priory church rose high into the sky, casting long shadows across the well-tended green. The soaring narthex window had been shattered at some point in time and replaced with plain glass rather than stained. Several of the spires were damaged, and the side facing the center of the green had marks, as if it had been struck by stray gunfire.

A remnant of the war.

As I reached the entrance, I heard a pair of hushed voices. Men arguing in whispered German from the far side of the church. Close enough I could only pick up bits of their conversation.

“What did you think would happen…” The wind groaned, erasing the rest of the sentence.

“We can do nothing without proof—”

“Proof or no proof. I don’t want any part in this…” The second man hissed. “Just look what was happening to poor Eva. You’ll end up the same if you are not careful.”

I froze, my hand on the church door. The fear was thick in the man’s throat. Stronger than the anger. What was going on here? The image of the shallow grave returned stubbornly to my mind.

The voices were slightly closer now, just on the far corner of the church. I pressed myself against the wall hoping to hear something else, something to assure me that this was an innocent argument and that my imagination was simply running away with itself.

“Then don’t. But I will not abandon them. Not now. The risk is too great. How many more will be harmed if I do nothing?” The first spat back in a hushed tone.

“And how many more will die when you do?” the second snapped.

“I will not remain silent. Not anymore. You can do what you will.”

What the devil had I stumbled across?

Before I could slip into the church and out of sight, one of the men stepped out from the alleyway beside the priory church, directly into my path. He was a middle-aged man, likely only a decade older than me if that—with neat, sandy hair that had been combed over and clipped short. He wore a white physician’s coat that caught in the warm morning wind, whipping about his gray trousers. Could this be the von Keller fellow that Hari had told me about? The head physician here who was so unpopular? Hari had said that he was risking ouster for being a radical but what I’d overheard sounded far more sinister than simple theoretical differences.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask who he was and inquire after my mother, being done with it once and for all. But something about him gave me pause. His gaze flicked up to my face, and his breath caught gently in his chest. I’d surprised him. His expression darkened. “You should not be here.”

My nostrils flared but before I could respond, the doctor turned and stormed off to the hospital. I peeked around the corner to see if I could spot who he’d been speaking to, but there was no one there. I started to follow him and let him know what I thought of his impertinent attitude when I realized one dreadful fact that halted me in my tracks.

That man, whoever he was, had addressed me in English.

Not German as he’d been speaking with the other man.

We were in Belgium. There was no reason for him to know my native tongue before I opened my mouth … A cold dread climbed up my throat as I recalled the recognition in his face. No reason, unless he already knew who I was.

I watched as the doctor disappeared into the hospital. It was none of my business what they were discussing. Not at all. I needed to get my mother and go home. The fellow was right, I didn’t belong here. Neither did my mother. I tugged a pale green kerchief from my pocket and tied it over my hair, then stepped inside the church.

THE HEAVY WOODEN door to the priory church groaned beneath my grasp as I entered the darkened vestibule. The rich and unctuous scent of incense and old wood struck me before the door even closed, sealing me inside. More of the old stained glass survived than I’d first imagined from the outside—centuries old and lining both sides, allowing the winter sun to shine upon the center aisle in colorful shapes. Some of the more damaged ones had long been boarded up—waiting to be replaced. Others simply had clear glass placed in its stead. Above the ornate altarpiece was the clear glass rose window, casting a great circle of light upon the floor at the foot of the altar. I’d not entered a church since the war, but even still it brought a foreign sort of peace. The one thing I needed for the task ahead.

A statue of a woman was positioned to the left of the altar in the niche where the Virgin Mary often stood. But this woman was not the Madonna. Instead of holding a child to her breast, she stood with a large magpie resting upon her hand. She’d been damaged during the war, with bits of the marble chipped off but even still she was remarkably lifelike. Just like the Virgin’s, Saint Oda’s gown had been painstakingly painted in shades of white and blue.