“Father Bane has left you in my care for the time being. He is visiting the Vatican.”
If I could laugh, I would. Instead, a dry wheeze breezes past my crusted lips. Francesca takes no notice of it, though, and does something that I don’t expect her to do at all. She washes me. Warm water slips over my skin, washing away dust and dry blood from my body. In times past, Bane would simply dump cold water on me after his terrible experiments. She is either foolish to employ the use of warm water and soap, or she doesn’t care about the sort of wrath this might bring down upon her if Bane were to learn the truth.
When she finishes, she leaves without another word.
It takes everything in me the next day to utter a single “Thank you” when she returns.
Something in that minor gesture shifts her behavior towards me. Francesca’s visits grow more frequent during the day, from once to twice to three times. She only ever brought one vial of blood, but I suspect there's been a gradual increase in the dosage lately. It tastes fresher, too, and sweet like grapes picked right from the vine. I did not ask her where it came from, I only drankit. My focus has improved; I can hear her Bible verses when she reads aloud, or the poetry she sneaks in on occasion, and I can see her when she sits across from me, poised against the pillar closest to my wall.
Eventually, after a while, she sets aside her books, and I manage to pull myself from the pain of starvation to speak to her. I’m grateful for the distraction of a real conversation, even if it is mostly one-sided, though, and I fill in when I can. She talks about her life, how short her childhood felt, and how planned everything after her sixteenth year felt. Raised by a family of strong faith, her mother pushed her to join the convent, whilst her three older brothers were allowed to start families. It didn’t matter what she wanted, only that she would serve the church. It was a waste of a life barely lived, now tied to vows that couldn’t be broken.
“You’re young,” I say on one occasion.
“Is that so?”
“Twenty,” I guess. Francesca is round in the face, with brown eyes as wide as the moon, framed by thick black lashes that kiss her cheeks when she blinks. Her lips are like rose petals, red and full. It’s a damn shame no one has ever kissed her to find out if they’re as soft as they look.
“A young lady never tells her age.”
“Youare a nun,” I quickly counter. “That is an exemption.”
Her round cheeks puff out in defiance. “I am old enough to serve the Lord.”
“And do you?” I ask. “Serve the Lord?”
“Yes. I have taken my vows,” she asserts.
“A pity for one so lovely,” I say, mourning the loss of her youth and beauty in her stead. “Your lord cannot serve you the way I can. What worship I would lay at your feet if I had the chance to commune between your delicate thighs.”
She gasps, hurrying to hide herself from my eyes. But she isn’t quick enough. The blush that stains her alabaster skin follows me into my dreams that night.
For two weeks after that encounter, we do not meet. She is replaced by Bane, whose return brings back the days of torture when my mind was first clear and spirit unbroken. His presence feels like a punishment for making the young nun blush, but I doubt he knows what passed between me and Francesca during his absence. Of course, there are other sisters milling about the church, but they avoid me and my tower like the plague. Despite their many warnings and blessings in passing, no one has ever followed Francesca.
Perhaps that’s why it was so easy for her to find me in the dark, when all the others were asleep.
“I thought you were gone,” I say, surprised to see her so late one night.
“I needed time.” Quietly, she shuts the door behind her and faces me. Her face is flushed from the cold outside.“What you said upset me.”
I tilt my head to see her better. “Did it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She tiptoes to me, then sinks to her knees quietly. “What you said made me curious.”
“You risk yourself coming to see me at this hour.” Warning tips the edge of my voice.
I should tell her the risks, but I don’t. I also don’t tell her that I take pleasure in her curiosity, or the way she is dressed tonight. No habit, no wool dress, just a thin nightgown and a robe. My favorite part, however, is the loose braid perched on her shoulder. My fingers itch to pull it, to undo it and run through her tangles. How much more curious could I make her? Shewould shy away if she knew how deeply I crave another person’s touch.Hertouch.
“I know. I wanted to apologize, and to bring you this.” Francesca produces a small vial of blood and feeds it to me. Overcome by its taste, I groan.
Breathy and unsteady, her voice shakes as she says, “I want you to feed on me.”
“I can’t.” I want to. I won’t.
“Why not?” Her pout is as beautiful as her smile.
