Chapter 4 Stone and Silence

The sacristy lay at the heart of Saint Avila, a dim chamber older than most of its walls. Here, relics of saints rested behind iron grilles, wax candles clustered like silent sentinels, and ancient vestments hung in linen folds heavy with age.

Emily stepped across the threshold, pail in hand, her footsteps soft against the worn flagstones. Dust stirred in pale shafts of morning light, catching motes of candle ash that drifted lazily, as if time itself had slowed to a near halt.

She set the pail down beside the altar steps, water sloshing softly inside. The smell of damp stone, melted wax, and incense heavy in the air brought a rush of memory so sharp it caught her breath: midnight vigils, whispered confessions, and nights spent scrubbing these very stones, hoping to wash away doubt as easily as dirt.

Kneeling, Emily dipped the stiff-bristled brush into the water. The first strokes were clumsy; the bristles caught on cracks worn deep by centuries of novices before her. But she found a rhythm soon enough: scrub, rinse, move forward, repeat. It was a dance as old as service itself.

Hours stretched, marked only by the bell's toll echoing through cloistered halls. The morning light shifted on the floor, revealing old stains too deep to scrub away. Emily's arms ached, knees bruised anew by stone, but she kept on - if not to prove herself to others, then to silence the voice of her own doubt.

A door creaked behind her. She turned, half-expecting Annalise or Maire, but saw no one in the dimness. Only the faint scent of old incense hung in the air, strangely sweet.

She set the brush aside for a moment, flexing stiff fingers. The silence pressed around her, almost alive. Then, from the darkest corner of the sacristy, a sound rose - soft and fleeting, like cloth brushing stone.

"Who's there?" Emily asked, voice low but firm.

No answer came. Shadows lay still, ancient tapestries unmoving in the stale air. And yet Emily felt it again: that prickling awareness, as if unseen eyes weighed her every breath.

She returned to scrubbing, but her strokes faltered, mind wandering to memories she had buried under prayer and time: an older novice, whispered warnings of what lay hidden in Saint Avila's oldest vaults, and a rumor - never spoken aloud - that the stones themselves remembered every vow broken within these walls.

By midday, her tunic clung damp to her skin, and her knees burned from hours kneeling. Emily pushed through, though her vision blurred and muscles trembled with exhaustion.

Finally, she rinsed the brush, wiped her brow, and sat back on her heels. The floor gleamed cleaner than it had in months, pale marble catching the thin daylight. Yet a single stain, dark and stubborn, remained unmoved in front of the old reliquary - a stain she knew had been there since long before her arrival.

She reached out, fingertips brushing the cold stone. A chill skittered up her spine, sharp as a sudden gust. In that breath, she felt - not heard - a whisper coil around her thoughts.

"Return... remember..."

Emily gasped, drawing back. Her heart thundered. The room lay silent again, unchanged but for the echo of her own breath.

She rose unsteadily, legs shaking. It must have been exhaustion, she told herself. An old building settles; sounds slip through cracks. Yet deep within, past fear and reason, something older stirred - the same whisper that had first drawn her back to Saint Avila.

Stepping into the hall beyond, Emily almost collided with Maire, carrying a tray of folded linens. "Emily! Are you well?" Maire's gaze swept over her flushed face and trembling hands.

"I'm fine," Emily lied. "Just tired."

Maire studied her for a moment longer. "They're testing you," she murmured. "Scrubbing the sacristy alone - it's meant to humble, to remind you of your place."

"I know," Emily whispered.

"And Annalise," Maire added carefully, glancing down the corridor to be sure they were alone, "she'll be watching. She already has Father Abbot's ear."

Emily nodded. "She doesn't need to worry. I didn't return for rivalry."

Maire hesitated. "Be careful, Emily. You're not the same girl who left - but neither is this place."

The bell rang again, calling novices to the refectory. Emily followed Maire into the stream of robed figures, the scent of barley broth and coarse bread mixing with the cold breath of the corridors.

At the doorway, Annalise stood speaking softly with another novice. Her gaze flickered to Emily, unreadable as ever, before turning away.

Inside, Emily took her place at the far end of the long oak table. The meal passed in low murmurs: the scrape of spoons, the hush of shared prayers, and the constant sense of being observed. Some novices risked quick glances her way; others avoided looking at all, as if fearing her presence might invite punishment.

After the meal, Emily slipped away to the cloister walk. The afternoon light fell in narrow beams through arched windows, painting pale stripes across the worn stone. She paused by the oldest wall, where carved names - some so faint they seemed like ghosts - told of novices long gone.

She traced her fingers over a barely legible inscription. It felt like reaching for something she could not quite name: belonging, perhaps, or forgiveness. Or maybe just the courage to keep searching, even when the shadows whispered back.

In that silence, Emily closed her eyes and let the stone's cool steadiness seep into her bones. Whatever comes, she vowed silently, I will not run.

Above, a distant bell rang the hour, and the shadows of Saint Avila stretched longer across the courtyard. Somewhere in the quiet, Emily felt again the faint echo of that unseen voice, as soft and restless as falling ash:

"Remember..."

She opened her eyes, heart steady now. The truth lay somewhere within these ancient stones - and she had returned not just to find it, but to face it, no matter the cost.