Page 18 of The Savage

Let me not succumb to temptation.

Let nothing pry me from the safety of these walls.

I exhale the words like a vow.

And somewhere, far away, unseen fingers press a single key, setting a different kind of vow into motion.

* * *

The bell above the dormitory door rings once but it’s too sharp, too soon.

My eyes snap open.

For a moment I think it’s a dream, another echo from the fire, until I hear it again – a metallic clang that doesn’t belong anywhere inside a convent.

Then the dogs down by the orchard start barking, and the night fractures.

Whispers rise, much more fervent than we’re allowed, along the hall.

Feet shuffle and the hinges of old doors groan open.

I slip from my cot, my own bare feet finding the cold stone.

Sister Teresa appears in the corridor the second I open my door a crack, her candle trembling in one hand, her other clutching the rosary at her throat. Her usually steady gaze swims wide with apprehension.

‘What is it, Sister?’ I whisper, and I don’t miss the thread of fear I can’t hide in my own voice.

Before she can answer, the lights go out.

The corridor drowns in blackness. The only sound is the pounding of my heart… and then, beneath it, a rhythm I don’t recognise. Footsteps. Boots. Heavy, coordinated, deliberate.

Not the light treads of unassuming nuns.

A door slams downstairs and someone cries out. It’s a short, startled gasp that’s cut off too quickly. Teresa’s candle wobbles, almost snuffing out.

‘Back to your room,’ she breathes. ‘Lock the door.’

‘But shouldn’t we go and⁠—?’

Her stern gaze is harsher in the candlelight.

I nod and obey, stumbling into my cell, closing the wooden door and pressing my weight against it. But the bolts here are old and small, meant to keep out curiosity, not violence.

The sounds, though a little muffled now, multiply.

Shouting now, interspersed with low, male voices speaking in a language too clipped to follow. That in itself is a huge worry, since men – save Matteo, the ageing gardener, and his son – aren’t allowed within the confines of the convent.

More doors open, a few more urgent shouts, then I hear the scrape of boots getting close. Closer.

The hollow thud of something hitting a wall, then glass shatters somewhere near the refectory. I jump from the door, staring unseeing into the darkness before, pivoting, I sink to my knees beside the bed.

The faintly phosphorescent outline of the crucifix above me glows faintly in the dark. I reach for it, reassured by its solid form in my hands.

It’s not a fire, but I fear what’s coming could be just as bad.

Worse.

‘Please, Lord,’ I whisper. ‘Have mercy. Please, not again.’