“That may yet come,” the nun said kindly. “Peace has a way of finding those who stop running.”
“I am not running,” Matilda murmured. “I am standing still for the first time.”
Sister Agnes studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. Today, you will take communion with us for the first time. You will eat of the bread and drink of the cup, and in doing so, you will offer your heart to God freely, and without burden.”
Matilda gave a small, composed bow of her head. “Then I am ready.”
“Come,” Sister Agnes said, gesturing toward the chapel doors. “It is time.”
The sisters moved in a slow procession down the aisle, the sound of their steps blending with the chant that filled the chapel. The low, rhythmic Latin, the smell of incense, the faint gleam of candlelight, it all felt heavy and sacred. It was to become her newabsolute.
When Matilda reached the altar, the abbess turned to her. “You come to take the bread and the cup, and to lay down the burden of the world?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Do you come freely, without regret?”
Matilda’s throat tightened. “I come because I have nothing left to regret.”
A murmur passed through the sisters, but the abbess only inclined her head. “Then kneel, child.”
Matilda obeyed. The stone floor was cold beneath her knees, and she could feel he chill of it biting through the thin fabric. Sister Agnes stood behind her, with a steadying hand at her shoulder.
The abbess lifted the small silver chalice. “When you take this, you will promise before God to seek only His peace. To let go of every earthly tie, every longing of the heart.”
Matilda closed her eyes. The image came unbidden: the sharp line of his jaw in the moonlight, the warmth of his hand against her back, the taste of rain on his lips.
She swallowed hard. “I am ready,” she whispered.
The abbess placed the bread in her palm. “Then say the words.”
Matilda hesitated. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft crackle of candles.
“I vow…” she began, her voice shaking. “I vow to turn my heart from the world.”
Sister Agnes murmured behind her, “And to seek peace everlasting.”
Matilda’s lips trembled, but she repeated it. “And to seek peace everlasting.”
Her fingers tightened around the bread, and her pulse quickened as she brought it to her lips. The chant of the sisters swelled around her, solemn and low. It echoed through the vaulted ceiling like a heartbeat.
But as she swallowed, her chest ached, and she felt the truth strike deep: she was not seeking peace. She was hiding from pain.
Her vision blurred with unshed tears. She pressed her palms together, whispering under her breath. “Please, let me forget him.”
Outside, a door creaked open in the cloister. The faint sound barely reached her over the chanting.
Sister Agnes touched her shoulder gently. “Peace will come, my dear. It always does, for those who stop fighting.”
Matilda nodded numbly, with her eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar. “Then it must come soon,” she whispered. “Before I lose the strength to want it.”
And beyond the chapel doors, unheard and unseen, heavy footsteps echoed in the hall, drawing closer with each passing moment.
Jasper’s horse had barely stopped before he leapt from the saddle. Mud splashed up his boots as he strode toward the wrought-iron gate of St. Brigid’s Abbey, with his heart hammering like thunder against his ribs.
The gatekeeper, a small, anxious-looking nun, stepped forward at once. “Your Grace, this is holy ground! You cannot?—”
But he was already past her.
