I shifted uncomfortably. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve been treated well here.”
Her mouth curved again, and this time it was clearly a small smile. “Now, what brings you to my domain of smelly pigments and cramped fingers?”
“I was hoping you might show me your techniques. I don’t want to interrupt your work, of course. But I would dearly love to learn how to do what you do, or at least whatever poor excuse I’m able to achieve. Your work is beautiful.”
“Thank you. Sit at this table next to me and I will happily show you.”
My cheeks heated with a joyful flush.
“But, ah,” she added slowly, “perhaps take care not to let any frustration turn to heat. We would not wish another fire to start, especially not here.”
My joy faded. “I didn’t start that fire, Sister Pastel.”
She paused, studying me closely. “I’m glad to hear that. Though it disturbs me to think one of my own order did, and that they didn’t come forward to confess when you were accused.”
I shook my head. “It could have been a fire improperly extinguished. We may never know what happened. But let me assure you, you can trust me. If I get frustrated, I’ll find Arcus and ask for some extra training. He’s always a good outlet for my wrath.”
Sister Pastel chuckled and handed me a brush.
Over the next week, life at the abbey became a blur of routine. Even though I’d recovered, I continued to sleep in the infirmary. I was comfortable there, and Brother Gamut had confessed that not many rooms in the abbey were fit for occupation. In the mornings, I woke at the matins bell and dressed in my tunic and leggings. Then it was up and down the tower stairs twice before meeting Brother Thistle on the training ground.
I improved in uneven spurts, finally learning to burn the detested shrub I had missed during my first lesson, and then any target that Brother Thistle pointed out, though my aim was, in his words, “rather unpredictable at times.” He had me exert finer levels of control by starting the fire in the warming room every evening, drying wet robes hung out on wash day, even lighting a candle from a distance, which took hours and hours of practice. I was able to complete my tasks with increasing reliability. Still, the larger uses of flame often eluded me, much to my frustration.
After my lessons, I usually headed for the stables to help Sister Clove, who was in charge of the livestock. She had roughly hewn features and large hands that were gentle with the animals. I helped her muck the stalls, groom horses, and carry heavy sacks of seed or grain for the chickens and pigs and goats.
When I finished in the stables, I would head for the kitchen—housed in a separate building because of the risk of fire—and offer help to the cook, Brother Peele. He usually had me wash pots and carry buckets of water from the well. Occasionally, he asked me to gather herbs to season his pottage, which I had just done.
Strolling through the cloister on my way to the kitchen, I breathed the scents of crushed weeds and kitchen smoke. I gave the icy statue of Fors a saucy wink and clutched my robe tighter. After a few days of mild weather, a north wind had whipped up with a vengeance, forcing its way through my clothes and pulling at my joints.
As I passed through the reverent hush of the church, I noticed that some of the pews had been removed, no doubt burned in the fire, and the scent of ashes still hung in the air. My steps grew light, the soaring arched ceiling and large stained glass rendering of Tempus filling me with awe. On impulse, I walked down the central aisle and settled on one of the kneelers under the window. I gazed up at Tempus and he stared back, neither of us sure of the other. Maybe it would have been easier if it was Sud or Cirrus. But Tempus was almost as forbidding as Fors and more powerful, being the father of the four winds.
I pressed my hands together and prayed to Cirrus, watcher of the dead, to keep my mother safe in the afterworld in the sky. When I thought of my mother, my chest grew painfully tight. With chapped knuckles, I tried to rub away the pain at the back of my eyes before continuing to the kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to Brother Peele as I hung my cloak on a peg on the kitchen wall. “I was…” It seemed silly to tell him I had been praying. He prayed five times a day at set times, along with all the other monks. Fortunately, Brother Peele was too busy chopping potatoes to notice my half-finished sentence. The first time I had come to the kitchen to offer help, he had barely spoken, watching me as if I were a fox angling to steal his chickens. But he gradually became accustomed to me, and I’d found him to be quite loquacious.
“Rabbit’s in the pot already,” he said, motioning with his knife. He had an accent, having come from the northern hill tribes, and I liked the way he rolled his Rs.