Page 40 of The Savage

Sister Benedetta

I shake my head. Again. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing since I walked into this stranger’s room.

But the things he’s doing… saying. I thought once the doctors left he would deliver the same sharp commands, the sort of orders men bark in power corridors and expect the world to obey.

But his voice has been softer. Still harsh, yes, roughened by pain and pride, I expect. But it’s more contemplative. As if he wants to truly know my thoughts. Or work out the puzzle he thinks I am.

But… why? And what he said about Madre Superiora?

I shake my head, taking a few steps to sit back down before my weakened knees give out.

‘You’re going to have to stop doing that, baby.’

The endearment scrapes along my nerves. Heat shoots to my face and alarming parts of my body before I can stop it. ‘Please don’t call me that.’

‘What should I call you?’ His mouth crooks, not quite a smile. ‘Benedetta? We both know you don’t wear it well.’

‘I am Benedetta,’ I insist, though the words wobble as if they’ve never learned to stand. ‘It’s the name I was given.’

‘By women who also told you your past turned to ash.’ He studies me with that unnerving focus, like he’s reading more than my face. ‘Why haven’t you insisted on knowing who you are? Really insisted, I mean. With the viciousness of the tigress I know prowls beneath your memories. Surely, your Mother Superior read the file herself and should have some recollection of it?’

‘I have.’ My fingers twist and knot and I force myself to still. ‘I asked for my records. She promised to show me when the time was right⁠—’

‘And let me guess,’ he says dryly. ‘The time was never right?’

A brittle silence falls. I feel a childish urge to defend her, to defend all of them, even as something small and sharp twists in my chest.

He tilts his head. ‘What did the doctors say? About this… condition you have?’

I breathe in slow. I’ve said these words before, the medical ones that feel like armour when faith slips. ‘Retrograde amnesia due to trauma. The neurologist said memory can return, but forcing it risks consolidating false narratives. He warned that aggressive therapy could… cause more damage.’

His gaze never leaves mine. ‘So you were told to wait.’

‘Yes.’

‘And to pray.’

‘Yes,’ I say, flinching at the judgement I hear in his tone. ‘And I do.’

He reaches for the phone on his tray and taps the screen, one-handed, quick. The device chimes as it dials. My stomach tightens.

‘Dottore,’ he says when the call connects. ‘On speaker.’

A tinny shuffle, then the older doctor’s careful voice fills the room. ‘Signore?’

‘Retrograde amnesia,’ Renzo says, eyes on me while he speaks. ‘Forcing recall could cause permanent damage. True or false?’

A pause. ‘In some cases, yes. If the trauma is severe and the neurological pathways remain unstable. Gentle exposure can help, but⁠—’

‘So I’m guessing a sledgehammer won’t?’ he asks, his eyes fixed squarely on me.

‘No, Signore. I highly advise against that.’

‘Good. Seven a.m. I want you here to take a look at her. Run every test there is.’

Another pause, longer this time. ‘Of course.’

He ends the call and sets the phone down with a click, then pats the mattress beside his hip. ‘Come here, angel.’