Kiss at Midnight

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Convent of Saint Basilla Kingdom of York, Britain October 31, 999 "The omens are ill indeed." The bishop leaned back in his chair and allowed the novice to refill his goblet of wine. The young woman did so with steady hands, head bowed, and then stepped back into the shadows of the prioress's private chamber, keeping her jug of wine ready. "Think you so?" murmured the prioress, taking a bite of her evening meal. "The new year is still weeks away." "What is a matter of weeks to the mind of God?" asked the bishop. "Mere weeks are nothing to Him. I tell you, God is warning us. He is showing us these signs to prepare us for the end times. How else do you explain the curious weather we've been having? The heat of August on a day so close to winter?" "You are correct, of course," concurred the prioress. "One of my villages has reported the birth of a lamb to a cow. How do you explain that, I ask you? And another has had its well dry to dust overnight. Overnight! From a well that was plentiful just the day before. Every day of my travels brings me to a new village with new portents, each one more severe than the last. The Day of the Lord is nearly here!" The prioress nodded thoughtfully. "Expect miraculous things," whispered the bishop, his voice low and thrilled. "Showers of fire! The earth opening up! The red dragon himself come to plague us! Yet we will be strong, and be blessed for it!" "We are grateful you have come to warn us," said the prioress. "These are strange times," muttered the bishop, and waved his goblet for more wine. The young woman came forward, tipping the jug to the goblet, but the wine splashed out too quickly. A splattering of red fell onto the sleeve of the bishop's robe. "Clumsy girl!" exclaimed the man, and pushed back his chair, holding out his arm in front of him. The novice quickly set the jug of wine on the table. She grasped the stained cloth of the robe and began to blot up the wine with the edge of her own sleeve. "Leave it," grumbled the bishop, jerking away from her. "You're spreading the stain, child. Leave it be!" The young woman bowed her head again, hiding her face, and curtsied deeply before backing away once more. "What?" said the man, watching her. "Have you no repentance to offer, child?" "She cannot speak," said the prioress calmly. "She is under an oath of silence." "Ah." The bishop studied the girl again, curious. "She's a bit too old to be a novice, isn't she? Most her age would have taken their vows by now." "Serath has . . . special problems," said the prioress with a needle-sharp glance to the novice, who remained motionless. "She has not done well with discipline, I'm sorry to say. She is willful and disobedient, a great trial to us all." "Ah," said the bishop again, nodding. "So this is Serath Rune, granddaughter of the Lord of Alderich. I understand." "Indeed. I'm certain your lordship has heard of the black history of this girl. It is all we can do to control her." "The Lord of Alderich is a faithful man," commented the bishop meaningfully. "He is," responded the prioress. "It is due solely to his good faith that the girl remains here." "Look at me, child," said the man, and slowly the young woman raised her face. "Come forward," instructed the bishop. "My eyes are old. I cannot see you in the shadows." And the novice walked toward him, until the light from the lamps on the table fell across her figure and lit the gray of her veil and gown to the color of smoke. The bishop seemed start