probably sleep on my hose.
Knock-knock-knock .
What in the name of—?
‘Who is it?’
A voice replies from the other side of my door. ‘It’s me. Father Isidore. I’m sorry. There’s something I forgot to give you.’
And what might that be, exactly? I don’t like the sound of this. It’s getting dark outside. I can hardly see.
‘Please don’t be concerned.’ Isidore’s tone is apologetic. ‘I’m not going to attack you. You have your pepper, do you not? I shan’t even come in.’
He’s right. I have my pepper. And my scissors. He won’t be expecting them.
I can feel the weight of the scissors in my right hand, as I unlatch the door with my left. And slowly drag it open.
He’s in the corridor outside, bearing a tallow candle. It throws strange shadows across his hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes.
‘Gloria Patri et Filio!’ he exclaims, crossing himself. He’s staring at my bare legs. ‘What happened to you?’
What? Oh, that.
‘That was my aunt. She threw scalding water at me.’
He mutters something else in Latin, before saying, ‘No wonder you think the world is hell.’
‘What do you want?’ I’m not going to call you Father. I’m not going to call you anything. ‘You said that you had something for me.’
‘Yes. This.’ He opens his hand, and there’s a plait in it. A small, dark plait of hair. ‘This belonged to your mother,’ he says quietly. ‘She gave it to your father, and he gave it to me. It’s a lock of hair that she cut from her head. As a gift for him. Before he left.’
A lock of—?
Oh no. It can’t be.
‘Take it. Go on.’ He’s letting it dangle. ‘You must take it, Babylonne, it’s your inheritance. Who else should rightfully have it? You are your father’s true heir, not I. So take it.’
It sits in my palm like a feather.
‘When you can read,’ he says, ‘I’ll give you the books as well. But only then. Your father would not want you to sell them—and they’re of no use to you at present.’ He waits, but I can’t speak. So he steps back. ‘Good night,’ he whispers. ‘Sleep well.’
And he drifts away like a shadow, down the long, stone corridor, taking the light with him. All of a sudden everything’s dark. I can hardly see my hand, let alone what it’s holding. My mother’s hair. My mother’s hair .
He kept it. All those years, and my father kept it. Could he—could he have loved her after all? Really loved her? If he took her hair, maybe he would have taken her with him too. Had she truly wanted to go.
The plait feels so soft in my clenched fist. I don’t want to crush it, but I have to be careful. I don’t want to lose it in the dark. One puff of air as I shut the door and it could blow away.
The hinges creak. The latch drops. There—I’m safe. I’m alone with my mother’s hair. Plaited in the middle, bound at either end. Each end finishing in a little silken brush.
The brushes touch my jaw like a kiss. Like my mother’s soft cheek. They smell of lavender . . .
Oh no. No, I can’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Someone might be listening.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘It will get better,’ says the priest. ‘Every day, it will get a little better.’
Is that supposed to cheer me up? Each time the horse moves, a jolt of pain shoots through my knees. There are red-hot skewers in my thighs, and as for my buttocks—I don’t even want to think about them.
What’s the good of knowing that things will get better in the future? I want them to get better now !
I wasn’t made to ride a horse. I don’t think I have the right build. Isidore’s different: he’s tall, with long arms and legs. His wrists are strong and so is his back. No wonder he has such an easy time of it.
‘You’re improving,’ he adds, making a feeble attempt to encourage me. ‘I can see it already. The way you’re sitting—it’s much better.’
The way I’m sitting? You mean, the way I’m sitting as if someone’s poking me in the spine with a
Knock-knock-knock .
What in the name of—?
‘Who is it?’
A voice replies from the other side of my door. ‘It’s me. Father Isidore. I’m sorry. There’s something I forgot to give you.’
And what might that be, exactly? I don’t like the sound of this. It’s getting dark outside. I can hardly see.
‘Please don’t be concerned.’ Isidore’s tone is apologetic. ‘I’m not going to attack you. You have your pepper, do you not? I shan’t even come in.’
He’s right. I have my pepper. And my scissors. He won’t be expecting them.
I can feel the weight of the scissors in my right hand, as I unlatch the door with my left. And slowly drag it open.
He’s in the corridor outside, bearing a tallow candle. It throws strange shadows across his hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes.
‘Gloria Patri et Filio!’ he exclaims, crossing himself. He’s staring at my bare legs. ‘What happened to you?’
What? Oh, that.
‘That was my aunt. She threw scalding water at me.’
He mutters something else in Latin, before saying, ‘No wonder you think the world is hell.’
‘What do you want?’ I’m not going to call you Father. I’m not going to call you anything. ‘You said that you had something for me.’
‘Yes. This.’ He opens his hand, and there’s a plait in it. A small, dark plait of hair. ‘This belonged to your mother,’ he says quietly. ‘She gave it to your father, and he gave it to me. It’s a lock of hair that she cut from her head. As a gift for him. Before he left.’
A lock of—?
Oh no. It can’t be.
‘Take it. Go on.’ He’s letting it dangle. ‘You must take it, Babylonne, it’s your inheritance. Who else should rightfully have it? You are your father’s true heir, not I. So take it.’
It sits in my palm like a feather.
‘When you can read,’ he says, ‘I’ll give you the books as well. But only then. Your father would not want you to sell them—and they’re of no use to you at present.’ He waits, but I can’t speak. So he steps back. ‘Good night,’ he whispers. ‘Sleep well.’
And he drifts away like a shadow, down the long, stone corridor, taking the light with him. All of a sudden everything’s dark. I can hardly see my hand, let alone what it’s holding. My mother’s hair. My mother’s hair .
He kept it. All those years, and my father kept it. Could he—could he have loved her after all? Really loved her? If he took her hair, maybe he would have taken her with him too. Had she truly wanted to go.
The plait feels so soft in my clenched fist. I don’t want to crush it, but I have to be careful. I don’t want to lose it in the dark. One puff of air as I shut the door and it could blow away.
The hinges creak. The latch drops. There—I’m safe. I’m alone with my mother’s hair. Plaited in the middle, bound at either end. Each end finishing in a little silken brush.
The brushes touch my jaw like a kiss. Like my mother’s soft cheek. They smell of lavender . . .
Oh no. No, I can’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Someone might be listening.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘It will get better,’ says the priest. ‘Every day, it will get a little better.’
Is that supposed to cheer me up? Each time the horse moves, a jolt of pain shoots through my knees. There are red-hot skewers in my thighs, and as for my buttocks—I don’t even want to think about them.
What’s the good of knowing that things will get better in the future? I want them to get better now !
I wasn’t made to ride a horse. I don’t think I have the right build. Isidore’s different: he’s tall, with long arms and legs. His wrists are strong and so is his back. No wonder he has such an easy time of it.
‘You’re improving,’ he adds, making a feeble attempt to encourage me. ‘I can see it already. The way you’re sitting—it’s much better.’
The way I’m sitting? You mean, the way I’m sitting as if someone’s poking me in the spine with a
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