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distracted by the beauty and scale of the abbey. Imposing winged cherubim stood watch on both sides of the wrought gates, and inside the bailey, Mary was surprised by the cultivated gardens, fountains, and pools, and the numerous statues that gave the area the feel of a luxurious royal enclosure.
    Everywhere she looked, men in brown robes seemed hard at work at some task, or floated past her en route to another part of the massive structure. The long, rectangular courtyard was edged against the steep walls by a covered walkway, where delicate columns upheld graceful arches, and within the shadows she saw even more brethren. None seemed to pay any attention at all to her arrival. Her ears were filled with the sounds of bubbling and splashing water, sweet bird-song, distant bells, and . . .
    Nothing else. She guessed there must be over a hundred monks within earshot, but there was no laughter, no conversation, no calls.
    She turned to her reluctant escort. “Is this a silent order?”
    He only gave her a sideways look of exasperation.
    Mary allowed herself a little smile. “That must be quite uncomfortable for a brother of your . . . loquacious nature.” Another glance confirmed her observation was accurate by the tight line of his finely shaped lips. He couldn’t speak here.
    He guided her through one of the arches by taking hold of her elbow, but Mary shook him off, choosing to follow at the hem of his swishing robes. They entered the abbey proper through a set of vestibules, ever increasing in size, and then through a maze of wide corridors, until they came into a long, narrow hall.
    A bank of shallow windows were set up against the ceiling, perhaps thirty feet above Mary’s head, casting dusty beams of late-afternoon light against the opposite wall. Row upon row of skinny benches ran parallel to a bank of curtained confessionals, the wood ornately carved into splinter-intricate designs. The heavy drapes were pulled to the side of each one, showing that each closet was empty. Mary’s eyes scanned the small enclosures.
    The curtains were all green.
    She turned to the monk at her side, already shaking her head. “This isn’t the right place.”
    His eyes glanced around the empty room before whispering in reply, “If it is confession you seek, I assure you this is where it is done.”
    “No!” she half-shouted, the word echoing against the stones. She spun around. “There must be another—” Then her eyes landed on the single wooden box nestled in a far corner, separated from the bank of confessionals by a small arched passageway.
    The curtain was red.
    Mary half-ran to the solitary confessional, her dubious companion hurrying to keep up.
    “No!” he hissed. “No that one!”
    She reached the box and spun on her heel just as the monk caught up with her. “Fetch Father Victor. I’ll wait for him here.”
    “You can no use that one,” the monk repeated. “It is for the bishop. Or the king. Or . . . I do no actually remember,” he admitted. “But no one may enter without permission.”
    “I have permission,” Mary assured him, “and I’ll wait here as long as it takes.” She spun again to duck inside the confessional and flopped down on the narrow little bench hovering over the kneeler.
    The monk stood there for a moment, his dark eyes glancing around the long hall again before leaning slightly into the closet.
    “May I . . . join you?” he asked.
    Mary extended her arm, placed her palm against his chest, and shoved. Then she grabbed the edge of the red curtain and whisked it closed, ensconcing herself in murky darkness.
    “I can wait here if you wish to think about it.”
    Mary rolled her eyes. “ Victor ,” she reminded.
    She heard the monk’s defeated sigh from beyond, and then his reluctant footsteps fading away.
    With the tomblike silence settling around her like the lingering smell of old incense, Mary began to tremble. And then, as if at last she had awakened from a very long nightmare, she