Chapter 5 Shadows at Vespers

Night fell gently over Saint Avila, draping the monastery in velvet darkness. The distant toll of the evening bell echoed through the cloisters, its mournful notes settling like dust among cold stones.

Emily knelt in her narrow cell, her prayer unfinished. Words that had once flowed easily now tangled with questions she dared not voice. Beyond her window, moonlight broke through drifting clouds, spilling silver across the courtyard. Shadows stretched and shifted, hiding secrets in their folds.

The stone walls felt closer at night, heavy with memories too old to name. Emily drew her cloak tighter, though the chill that gripped her came not from the air but from the quiet certainty that the monastery watched her as surely as any living eye.

A soft knock startled her from her thoughts. The door creaked open and Maire slipped inside, her face pale in the moonlight.

"You're not asleep?" Maire whispered.

Emily shook her head. "Couldn't find rest."

"Nor I," Maire admitted, voice tinged with relief, as if Emily's wakefulness eased her own guilt. She sat on the edge of the cot, folding her hands in her lap.

"Word has spread that you saw something in the sacristy," she murmured, eyes searching Emily's face.

Emily hesitated. "I heard something... felt something, perhaps. But nothing I can name."

Maire exhaled softly. "Be careful what you share, Emily. Not all ears here are friendly, and rumor feeds quickly in these walls."

"I know," Emily said, voice low. "And Annalise... she's been watching."

Maire's gaze clouded. "She is... devoted. But ambition beats in her heart as surely as prayer. Father Abbot trusts her, more than you might think."

"I sensed that," Emily admitted.

They sat in silence, the air between them heavy with shared memory: late nights whispering of dreams, secrets, and doubts; mornings waking to the bell's call; the night Emily had left without a word.

Finally, Maire reached out, her fingers brushing Emily's. "Whatever happens," she whispered, "I am glad you returned."

"And I'm sorry," Emily replied, voice catching. "For leaving you to carry questions I should have shared."

Maire smiled faintly, sadness and forgiveness mingling in her eyes. "Sleep, Emily. Tomorrow brings its own trials."

When Maire had gone, Emily lay on her cot, staring at the ceiling where flickering torchlight painted restless patterns. Sleep came slowly, weighted with exhaustion yet lightened by fear.

In the shifting drift between waking and dreams, she found herself once more in the sacristy. The air felt colder, the shadows darker, and the stain before the reliquary shone wet and new.

A voice, low and almost human, whispered from behind her:

"Remember..."

Emily turned, heart pounding, but the chamber lay empty. Only the candles burned - and their flames bent toward her, as though drawn by breath unseen.

She stumbled backward. The ancient tapestries stirred, though no wind moved in the air. Then a figure took shape in the deepest shadow: not fully seen, but sensed, a presence older than the monastery itself.

"The truth... is not given," the whisper curled around her thoughts, "it is taken."

She woke with a sharp gasp, the taste of candle smoke lingering on her tongue. The cell lay silent, the moon's pale glow painting a thin line across the floor. Emily pressed a trembling hand to her chest, her heart still racing.

A sound outside drew her from the remnants of sleep: soft footsteps, deliberate, unhurried. She rose, pushing open the door just enough to see.

Annalise stood in the corridor, candle in hand, her face a study in calm shadows. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked: Emily's surprise met by Annalise's unreadable stillness.

"You should be asleep," Annalise murmured, voice hushed but not unkind.

"I... couldn't sleep," Emily whispered back, stepping into the hall. "And you?"

Annalise lowered her candle slightly. "Rest often comes late to those who carry burdens," she said. "And yours must weigh heavy."

Emily hesitated, then asked the question that had grown since dawn: "Why do you watch me so closely?"

Annalise's eyes glimmered in the candlelight. "Because you left - and returned," she said, voice low, almost gentle. "And Saint Avila remembers such things. So do I."

"You think I'm a danger?" Emily pressed.

"I think," Annalise said, "you're a question yet unanswered. And questions can be dangerous, for you as much as for others."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Emily searched Annalise's gaze for hostility, but found only wariness - and something else: curiosity, tightly controlled.

"I do not wish to disrupt," Emily said, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "Only to understand."

"And if the truth you find contradicts the faith you profess?" Annalise asked, her tone soft as falling ash.

Emily swallowed. "Then I will face it - whatever it demands."

Annalise's gaze darkened, but she inclined her head, acknowledging Emily's words. "Then let us both pray your resolve holds," she murmured. "Goodnight, Emily."

Annalise turned, candlelight flickering along the stone corridor as she walked away. Emily watched until the shadows swallowed her figure, then stepped back into her cell.

Closing the door, she leaned against it, heart pounding. Annalise's words echoed in her mind: "Saint Avila remembers."

She crossed to the narrow window, looking out over the moonlit courtyard. The old stones gleamed silver under the night sky, ancient and unmoved by dreams or fears.

Yet Emily felt, deep in her bones, that something had begun to stir - something older than rumor, stronger than rivalry.

She knelt once more beside her cot, pressing palms together. The prayer that rose was raw, stripped of form and memorized verse:

"Grant me the courage to face what waits.

Grant me the strength to hold to truth, even when it terrifies me."

Outside, the wind rose, sighing through cloister arches like a voice half-heard. And Emily knew, with a clarity that chilled her:

Her journey at Saint Avila was no longer hers alone.

Something unseen had begun to walk beside her.