August (18 page)

Tristan turned to the small window, his every thought suspended. No new impulse could rise without her; until they spoke, all was swirling, breathless possibility. He edged towards the glow, keeping in the shadows. He wasn't ready to be seen.

Grace sat at the edge of the bed, her head tilted as she brushed her hair. Tristan breathed in at the sight of her, cursing his memory for its inadequacy. Her face was more perfect than he had dared imagine. The candle danced, and he watched shadows lick her eyes, her lips, her nose. He was thrilled by her closeness. He whispered the name he had never spoken.
Grace
.

Tristan willed her to stay where she was—he could have watched her all night; but she knew nothing of his yearnings and stood to stretch her hands high above her head. She approached a small table by the window. Tristan could hear the gentle splashing of water. He followed her long fingers as she washed her face. She looked up, peering out into his darkness as if she had noticed him. This was the moment.
Call
out to her
, Tristan's mind commanded.
Move into the light.
But his stubborn legs didn't move and his feckless lips stayed silent.

Tristan heard a knock within, small and muffled. Grace turned to face the door, her body straight and proud. A tall man, cast in shadow, walked towards her, stopping just before the point of touching. It was only then that the light of the candle fell on him and Tristan could see that he was naked. The man nodded his instruction. Tristan stood helpless as Grace pulled her gown slowly over her head, the muscles of her back knotted in the shallow light. Unclothed she knelt before the man. He turned to the candle and with his wicked breath extinguished the light.

Tristan backed away, numb and exhausted. He fell to his knees and splashed vomit on the muddy ground. His stomach, his past, his self: all returned to the dirt.

‘And that is how it happened. That is the story of how I lost my place in the world.'

‘I did see you,' she whispered. ‘I saw you there.'

Tristan felt something sharp and hard in his mouth and worked it to the front with his swollen tongue. A broken tooth. He spat it clear and waited for her to speak. She owed him nothing, no explanation or apology, but still he hoped.

‘I'm sorry.' Her fingers squeezed his forearm.

‘No, I am sorry,' he said. ‘Mine is the greater crime.'

‘You haven't heard my story,' she reminded him.

‘No, but I know how mine ends.'

‘I think you need me to forgive you,' Grace said.

‘For what?'

‘Whatever it is you think you have done.'

‘What I have done,' Tristan said, ‘is unforgivable.'

‘There's no such thing.'

‘You will change your mind.'

‘My mind doesn't change easily,' she replied.

Just when Tristan thought there were no new depths to plumb, it hit him: a surge of pain so utterly compelling he lost all concept of time. There was only now, this exploding moment of torture. He did not scream; even sound could not escape its pull.

When it left, it took his last scraps of energy. Exhaustion insisted itself upon him and he felt himself tumbling into unconsciousness.

‘Tristan. Tristan!'

Grace had been speaking but he had not heard her. Now she pulled at his broken shoulder. He felt his body sway with the movement, but it was not his body. He was outside it now, an observer.

‘You can't fall asleep.'

‘I am tired,' he mumbled.

‘We are both tired,' she said.

‘No.' Tristan shook his head. ‘I can't do this any more. It is over.'

‘Not yet.' She would not allow it. ‘We will outlast the darkness.'

‘You don't know that.' Tristan could feel himself shrinking from the world.

‘Sit up. Come on, move.'

Somehow she had an arm beneath him and was urging him forward. His stomach tightened and he began to cough, desperate choking claims on the air, folding one into the other. There was, it seemed, no denying her. He was awake again.

‘I will tell you how I came to leave the convent,' she said. ‘But listen well. I will take it personally if you fall asleep.'

Grace's Story

The City had little trouble providing death and there were never more than a few days between passings. Grace slipped out once a week, twice if there was a need. The job she had given herself was plain, but it wasn't simple: she sought to offer comfort where no comfort was available. It was her instinctive response to the weight of death on the mourners' shoulders, the salt of tears on their cheeks. And to the warmth that came from performing a humble task well. She found strength in routine and dedication and believed her work brought her closer to God, as she had been taught in the convent. She never lost her faith, even if it was necessary to reinvent Him each day.

It came as no surprise that one evening an angel should emerge from the shadows at the side of the chapel. ‘What are you?' she asked, but he gave no answer. Still, it was enough that he had shown himself. She knew then that her work was finding favour.

The first times Grace escaped the convent were terrifying. Every sound or shift in the pressure of the air convinced her she was being watched. She developed an ache in her neck from being permanently tense, waiting for a bony hand to reach out of the darkness. But it never did. Not on the first night, or the second, or even the tenth. Grace began to relax. Seeing the angel convinced her she was being protected and she began to take more risks, leaving earlier in the night, taking the shorter route through wider, better lit streets.

And then it was over.

The entrance to the passage was well concealed and Grace always paused to test the silence before she stepped back inside the convent. But Sister Monica made no sound. She was kneeling before the altar, her eyes wide against the gloom. Grace heard a great roaring in her ears, the sound of her future being sucked out of existence. Instinctively she fell to her knees, ready to play the innocent fool, frightened and remorseful.

‘Sister,' she whispered. ‘I have been weak and thoughtless, but I am sorry for my sin. It was just this once and I am glad that you have found me for it has saved me from further temptation…'

Sister Monica laughed in her face. ‘You are a wicked child, Grace. You always have been. I am surprised you lasted this long.'

There were no rituals for expulsion. The nuns didn't want to make heroes of the departed. They didn't even bother with a final whipping. Grace was stripped of her robes, dressed in a coarse hessian smock and escorted out the front gate. The bolt was slid shut behind her and she was left standing before the City, a stranger fallen to earth without connections or prospects, her future of no interest to those who passed. In the cold dawn light Grace knew that a wrong move could kill her, yet she had no idea what a right move might be. She had felt fear many times, but it had never before held her with such certainty.

The grey sky was lightening in the east and Grace felt the chill of the departing night shiver through her. She began to walk, hoping movement might be enough to keep hopelessness at bay. She chose her path at random, her mind paralysed by shock. It happens this quickly, she realised, the rubbing out of a life.

By nightfall Grace was hungry and aching and no closer to knowing how she might survive. She headed for St Paul's Chapel because she couldn't think where else to go. There were no passings scheduled that night and she found the doors locked. She made herself as comfortable as she could in the alley where she had seen the angel, dimly hoping that if he intended to save her this was where she could be easily found. The cold bit into her bones. Fifteen years old, and fading. If Mary had not found her, she would have died there.

Mary was a young mother Grace had comforted at a passing some months before. Grace didn't recognise her— grief has a way of melting one face into another—but Mary remembered Grace. Later she would explain that bereaved mothers often walked past the chapel even though it was strictly forbidden. It was the only place they had to mourn, and to renegotiate their deals with God.

Mary insisted Grace come back to her home. Grace tried to resist; the City looked unkindly on those who harboured troublemakers and Grace had no desire to put Mary at risk. Mary would not be moved. When she had needed it most, Grace had been there to offer comfort, she explained, and now it filled her with gladness to be able to return the favour.

It was clear from her small dwelling that Mary could not afford to play the hostess. What's more, Mary's husband, Anthony, was a tiler and depended on the Holy Council for his contracts. If people chose to make trouble it could cost him his livelihood. He should have turned Grace away—all three of them knew it—but his heart was weak with kindness and he raised no objections. He smiled and he returned to his evening task of weaving straw insulation in preparation for the winter. Grace was given food and shelter without any talk of recompense. For two long months she didn't leave the tiny building, for fear of bringing Mary and Anthony further trouble.

When Mary fell pregnant again Grace knew the time to leave had come. No matter what goodness Mary possessed, her child had first claim to it. And Mary had suffered two passings; she needed every scrap of food Anthony could provide for her. Each morning Grace woke determined this would be the day she would go. She would make it easy for them, slipping out into the darkness before they could object. But at nightfall all three of them were still together, each finding excuses to forgo their share of the inadequate meal. Fear had Grace pinned there. No matter how much it hurt her to impose on them, she knew the cold City would kill her within a week. The spirit was willing, but the flesh refused to die. It was almost a relief when Mary finally raised the issue.

The winter had grown vindictive and Grace sat in front of the fire with a blanket wrapped around her. Mary had been at the markets and said nothing as she settled next to her guest. She took Grace's hands in her own and Grace, feeling the iciness, assumed she was trying to warm them. Then she saw Mary had been crying.

‘It's all right,' Grace said. ‘I know you can't afford to keep me now. I wouldn't want you to try. You must think of the baby. I am sorry I let it come to this. I will be gone before Anthony is home.'

Mary shook her head; the sadness in her eyes was magni-fied by tears.

‘No, Grace. You would die.'

‘Then that is what will happen,' Grace replied.

‘You will stay here, Grace.' Mary spoke quietly, with the same voice the nuns taught the girls to use when ministering to the sick and dying. ‘But we can no longer keep you. You need to bring money into the home.'

‘I would do anything, of course, but no one would employ me.'

Mary knew as well as Grace did how the City worked. Graduates of the convents took jobs as servants. Those from better homes trained as teachers and nurses, to pass the time before they met their husbands. That was all there was. No expelled girl could hope to find employment in the City. Grace looked to Mary, hoping desperately there was more to the world than she could imagine. It was not impossible. The convent had raised the concealment of truth to an art form.

Mary squeezed Grace's hand and stared at the muted flames.

‘There are men, Grace, who would pay to lie with you.'

At first Grace didn't understand. She looked for a clue, but Mary's eyes were fixed on the ground. ‘I would not ask this of you if it…'

‘I will do it,' Grace assured her, understanding little of what it was she promised. Whatever it was, it had to be better than dying. ‘I owe it to you. I do not mind.'

The next day, when Anthony was out at work, Mary explained the rudimentaries of sex and contraception. It was difficult for them both but Mary was thinking of her child and Grace of her life; they understood there are worse things to bear than embarrassment. But there was still one thing that Grace did not understand. How would they manage the risk of strangers entering the home? The front door was the house's only entrance and in the workers' quarter curtains twitched at the smallest sound. Mary's answer surprised her.