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Chapter 9
QuebecThe curtain twitched as Sister Bernadette looked out for the sixth—or possibly seventh—time. She was worried about Anne. Only a few years older, Sr. Bernadette had begun to look upon Anne as a younger sister. Not a religieuse, but the actual sister she had always wanted.
The middle child of two older and two younger brothers, Sr. Bernadette had longed for a sister with whom she could talk, take care of and share confidences. Her heart had gone out to Anne when she arrived, beaten nearly to death. Sr. Bernadette couldn't help think that the amnesia was God's blessing—His giving Anne a chance at a whole new life. Sr. Bernadette crossed herself. Mother Mary, protect her; she's suffered enough.
Sr. Bernadette looked out the window again. She knew Anne wasn't cut out for the religious life; eventually she'd have to re-enter the world. But she was just so fragile right now. Her own identity was not anchored securely enough to allow her to judge others.
Although an optimist at heart, Sr. Bernadette knew there was evil in this world. And not necessarily of the demons/minions of hell variety. Human beings were capable of great cruelties; her own mother had been shot and killed when Sister Bernadette was eight. She had raised her brothers while her father worked to provide for them, and when the boys had completed high school and were off on their own, she was finally able to realize her own dream.
Sr. Bernadette had wanted to become a Bride of Christ for as long as she could remember. Here, among the company of her Sisters and under the guidance of her Mother Superior, she prayed daily to make this world a better place—to open humanity's hearts to love and peace –rather than selfishness, cruelty and violence.
Unable to restrain herself, Sr. Bernadette went to the window and looked out again. The sun had just gone down and the sky was that silvery-purple twilight color that appears only in the north in winter. Sr. Bernadette took a moment to thank her God for the beauty of the world He had made.
Opening her eyes, she saw a small figure hurrying up the lane toward the convent, wearing Sr. Bernadette's own blue cloak. With a smile of relief, and another brief prayer of heartfelt thanks, Sr. Bernadette let the curtain drop and hurried to the postern door to welcome Anne back and hear all about her day.
**********
Lucien felt restless. His soul cried out for that shining, golden woman he had seen so briefly before her essence was hidden from him.
Was it an intentional cloaking? He didn't think so, but he couldn't explain it. He had been drawn to her; she was the one woman who could complete him. He had unknowingly been searching for her for centuries without an awareness of what he sought. Now he knew, and could no longer be content with his solitary, lonely existence.
His powers had been strengthened by the fresh native earth he had ordered from France. He knew he would find her now. Dominus would not be so cruel as to show her to him and then take her from his grasp. No, this was a test—a test of his worthiness. If he could not find her and convince her she belonged with him, Lucien did not deserve to have her.
Shifting into owl form, he burst into the night sky. He had many kilometers to cover to reach his goal. Loosely following Autoroute 40, he winged his way south toward Trois-Riveres, where he had seen her last. It was the logical place to begin his search.
**********
Anne and Sister Bernadette sat in a small nook in the warm kitchen, well away from the bustle of dinner preparations. Grateful that she was not assigned to kitchen work this week, Sr. Bernadette felt a brief flash of guilt. Of course it was her honor and privilege to labor wherever she was needed; she was just glad she wasn't needed on dinner duty this particular week.
Sr. Bernadette had fetched a pot of chamomile tea, pouring the boiling water over a handful of the leaves she had helped gather and dry last summer. Trying not to get in anyone's way, she had also appropriated a small pot of honey, gleaned from the convent's hives.
She sat next to Anne on the window seat overlooking the snow-covered herb garden. It would normally be too drafty seated this close to the window, but the warmth generated by the cooking activities made the nook quite comfy.
“I was beginning to worry about you, you were gone so long,” Sr. Bernadette remarked with no hint of censure tainting the honest concern in her voice.
“I'm sorry,” Anne replied. “I didn't mean to worry you, I just lost track of time. I ran into a man—” Anne giggled. “Well, actually, I 'ran into' him yesterday. Literally ran into him. He's a writer and he has the most gorgeous blue eyes you've ever seen! I was sort of hoping to see him again today, and he was at the cafe, and asked me to sit down and we got talking and I just . . . lost track of time. I'm so sorry I worried you, Bernie. I didn't think. I was just having a good time. His name's Will Winter and he's English—I mean really English, not just 'foreign'. I know you guys call me 'English', but I'm really American. He's from England and he went to Cambridge and he's cute and funny and he makes me laugh. He's sort of shy, and he blushes all the time and he has terrible hair, but did I mention his amazing blue eyes?
“We talked for hours and I feel like I've known him forever. I mean, there was this immediate connection—it was like we'd been together in a past life or something. Do you believe in past lives? Of course, you don't. You're a nun. Sort of once and done, right? I'm not sure what I believe, but I sort of have a feeling that death isn't the end—that people do come back, whether they want to or not.”
Anne finally paused for breath and took a sip of tea before continuing.
“Geez, I sound like a 14-year old with a crush on the cute new kid, don't I? But that's sort of the way I feel. Except, I'm the one who's 'new'. I don't remember anything about my past, but I get the feeling I kinda went for the 'bad boys'. And Will isn't like that. I feel — safe —being with him; he'd never hurt me. And, I'd like to get to know him better. I know, I know; my first priority should be getting to know me, but, Bernie—what if it never happens? What if I never get my memory back? Maybe I was given a fresh start for a reason. Maybe my life was so terrible I shouldn't try to remember.”
Sr. Bernadette put her arm around Anne's slim shoulders and pulled her close.
“Don't distress yourself, Anne. What will come; will come. I'll pray for you.”
***********
Will found himself breaking into a grin at the slightest provocation as he put away his clean laundry and made the bed. The scent of lavender permeated the cottage. Lavender was supposed to be calming, wasn't it? All those aromatherapy commercials on late-night TV in Los Angeles had touted the benefits of lavender in relaxing and calming.
He never wanted to experience a night like the previous one, so he had purposely selected the lavender fabric softener sheets at the laundromat. Between the lavender and the afternoon spent with Anne, he was looking forward to good dreams tonight.
Although how you expect to get any sleep at all in these nancy-boy sheets is one of th' mysteries of th' universe, yeah? Prob'ly spend the whole bloody night layin' there namin' the stars, you wanker!
Will was becoming used to the strange voice in his head; it was rather like the anti-Jiminy Cricket conscience, inciting the 'real boy' to turn back into a puppet. He ignored the voice, drawing the smell of lavender deeply into his lungs. With a rude sound of disgust, the voice became dormant and Will was able to once again concentrate on what was really important . . . Anne.
Will made a pot of tea and picked up the notebook in which he jotted down his ideas. He wasn't in the mood for revisions and re-writes; he wanted to create something entirely new to express his feelings for Anne.
Ode to Anne
Her eyes shine like the twinkling stars,Brighter than the neon signs in bars.
Her hair is streaked with golden sunshine;
My heart's desire is to make her mine.
Such strength! Such goodness! Encased in a body so petite;
She is absolute perfection from her head to her feet.
She makes my heart expand—it's grown a bulge in it,
Inspired by her beauty. . . effulgent!
Will ripped out the notebook page and crumbled it into a ball. He pitched the paper at the fire, but he was laughing so hard his aim was off and it was deflected by the andirons.What bloody awful tripe!
Apparently poetry wasn't his forte. In future, he would definitely stick to prose.
Hold on! He had an idea for the third novel. What if, instead of choosing a dim, hulking peasant with a penchant for cruelty as Deirdre had, Priscilla made a totally different choice? What if she chooses a sensitive, educated, responsible, unselfish . . . poet! . . . to be her consort? What would becoming a vampire do to such a man?
Would he pine for the life that had been taken from him, wanting only to greet the sun and end it all? Would he be unable to do so because of his unselfish, responsible need to care for the eldritch Priscilla who made him? Or . . . would he embrace the vampire life with a vengeance, completely re-inventing himself along the way, eventually even becoming a challenge and threat to the mighty Azreal?
The ideas chased each other through Will's head and he excitedly opened his computer—he couldn't wait to get to work.
With a laugh of pure joy, he began to type.
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