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to convey an air of repose. Yet they were rarely unoccupied: Margaret seemed always to have a distaff, a needle, or some other bit of work in them. And if one looked closely, one saw that they were not frail, in spite of their grace, but well muscled and capable of any exertion. Margaret’s sole concession to her husband’s fortune was the gold cross and chain at her neck. It, too, was plain and unjeweled, but of an antique design of great rarity and taste.
    Most odd about Margaret was something that cannot be clearly described: people around her felt a sense of calm but were not sure why. She had a way of moving into a room that imparted serenity to the most frantic situations, but no one ever quite knew how it had come about—least of all Margaret herself. Since she usually did this without words, it often took several repetitions of events for people to associate the change with Margaret’s presence. But nervous, sensitive people often understood right away that they felt “better” near Margaret, and as a result she was never without friends.
    It took a harsh soul, indeed, to be impervious to Margaret’s charm, but Brother Gregory prided himself on withstanding the blandishments of vain, worldly people. And despite Margaret’s external lack of display, Brother Gregory knew that the inside of her mind was gilded and ornamented with an extraordinary set of vanities. Why, the woman was impossible, and only a fool would have taken her commission. But now only pride in his honor kept him at work—and who knew how long that could last? If, perhaps, he could guide her into a more edifying style—possibly a more elevated subject matter—then this would not be time wasted.
    “Brother Gregory, I have not forgotten the Ancients, and I have given it thought.” A wiser man might have been warned by the excessive sweetness of Margaret’s voice. Brother Gregory looked down at her with an austere and disapproving gaze.
    “Did the Ancients write much about women? I want to write about the things that I know, and I am a woman. So tell me how the women of the Ancients wrote, and I shall model myself on that.”
    “The women of the Ancients did not write, and in that they were wiser and more discreet than certain women now.” Brother Gregory looked warningly at Margaret.
    “But the Ancients were not Christian and were therefore less enlightened than we are. And in our enlightened times women are much improved, and write most feelingly of profound matters. Bridgit of Sweden, for example—”
    “That lady is, first of all, a blessed and holy abbess and, secondly, writes of profound matters dealing with the soul, not with worldly frivolities. You should take that to heart for your own improvement.”
    There was something—something odd about Margaret that he had seen somewhere before, but couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was that something, so tiny as to be almost invisible, that had overbalanced his calculation in favor of taking up this writing project. It was on the first day he’d seen her, when the light had caught her eyes for a moment. Even in the dim shadows of the cathedral, as she stared at him, her eyes had shone for a moment all golden, like a falcon’s. It was a very strange look indeed. Where had he seen that glance before? Not on a woman, surely. But where? The thing puzzled him. But now that he had ceased having unpleasant night visions of mutton chops, he blamed himself for having an insufficiency of pride. There should be standards in the world of writing, and he’d failed to uphold them. There was no excuse. He sighed. It was all the fault of Curiosity.
    And that, too, is a vanity, observed Brother Gregory to himself morosely. He carefully sharpened a row of quills in advance, for his experience of the first week had made it clear that Margaret talked far too much for his taste, and seemed to pause very rarely, once she had started.
     
     
     
    T HE WINTER OF MY thirteenth year was very hard.