Brigid looked towards the windows. Through them, in the quiet garden, she saw two nuns walking. Beyond lay a yew hedge; beyond that again a low line of hills, blue against the sky. A thrush was singing in an elm tree.
“Tell me,” repeated the Abbess.
“Madam, the story in its entirety is hers, not mine. I saw that which she desired not that I should see; I heard that which she desired not that I should hear. She was my mistress. For three years I received kindness at her hands. Therefore, for the telling, what I have said must suffice.”
The Abbess nodded. Her mouth took on a line of grim approval. She liked loyalty.
“Good; it shall suffice. And now what do you propose?”
“To remain here.” Brigid’s voice was steady, though her face flushed.
“Ah! And in what capacity?”
“Madam, as nun.”
The old Abbess looked up verily surprised. “Hoity toity, child; a nun is not made in a moment. ’Tis a question of vocation.”
“I seek mine.”